An ill wind blew across the ragged cliffs.

A solitary watchman stands his lonely vigil,

Whilst below campfires pin prick the darkness,

Scattered welcoming orange glows,

Contrasting against the grim harshness of the night.

Despite the gathering within the valley below,

The silence on the night air was eerie.

Only the whistles of the wind offered any sound.

And this worried him,

For no army of this size should be so quiet.

Thoughts raced through his sleep deprived mind.

Had they left under the cover of darkness?

Leaving that which he watched an empty refuge?

But he would have heard them leave,

Having been on his watch since they arrived.

And so he stayed his ground out of sight,

Battered by the elements that showed no mercy.

He knew not what would await him upon the morrow,

Be it a day of victory or that of death.

All he could do now was wait, and keep watch.

Copyright: authorchrisbrown


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