Reactive Imagination

Hooves thundered upon the ground,

To Dunedin there was bound,

A Scottish moss-trooper with a message he bore,

Warning of English approaching, ready for war.

A mile from the city he was stopped in his tracks,

By an English warrior ready to attack!

Our Scotsman readied his steed,

And his lance for their time of need.

The Englishman charged with a roar,

Ready to spill some Scottish gore!

Forward our Scot rode at full gait,

With his lance poised and full of hate!

At he, the Englishman thrust and missed,

But the Scotsman struck with the flick of his wrist.

His lance of steel-tipped Ash,

His foe collided with a mighty crash,

And sent him down into the mud

With his chest agape and flowing blood.

'You may have won this battle we fought,

But won the war, you have not!'

With that he drew his last breath,

And drifted off, into death.

The Scot bowed his head and prayed to the Lord above

To carry the lost soul up like a dove

For which king the Englishman fought,

To our Scots hero, mattered not,

For, to he, each life taken must never be forgot!

THE END