Old man by the crest of the sea
steadied upon rusted spear. Flatline
gaze and steely eyes, world-weary
and weak.  Black bird
overhead in a spiral trap,
wide-eyed in the ocean's wake.

Outstretched hands and a pouch of ash
sifting through the gale-winds.  
With every gust comes a bitter
faltering in the branches
of a windswept elder tree.

The old man's children succumbed
one by one, to the fires of war;
charred flesh bound and burned.
One by one, hunted or drawn
by the allure of a greater Father.

For time beyond memory, he took
to wandering the wilder places,
watching a world caught in
subtle devouring.

To the stones by the sea
would be his last journey.

With the ashes spread beyond
the winds, he offers the dead
a quiet eulogy: "You were the last
of those who kept my memory.
No legendary heroes' hall awaits
the last of the old gods."

Poetry by Mark KlaxonLithology.

Artwork by Lisa Lenimentus.