The Raiders

By Rhys Hughes

The raiders reach the crest of the dune
and rest their horses for a quarter hour
while they scowl down upon the town,
the clustered huts and a wooden tower,
dimly illumined by the crescent moon.

Their hooves will clatter like a shower
of barbarous arrows onto the tin crown
of the toy king, each rider keen to prune
with a cruel hook every troubled frown,
a demonstration of their ruthless power.

In both wine or music a man may drown,
the war god clearly demands some tune
to shake out the nectar from the flower,
and for all the petals that will be strewn
his laughter is that of the maddest clown.

Do not despair, give no thought to fears,
the isolated peaks must eternally gleam,
and when all the thunder is a faded hush
nothing shall appear as it now may seem,
and the whittling worlds require no years.

The stream of themes that flood my dream
wash clean the screams in a headlong rush
and I watch for eyes when the mist clears
that blink eyelids weighty enough to crush
every ironic invader with his iron scheme.

And now stony heads dent beds of plush,
tears dilute rum to the strength of beers,
half-defeated and lost they remain a team
and that is true despite those burning ears
that blush as cheeks in youth’s first flush.

Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.

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