In Progress

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Pristine Waters
A man in a cart,
He passed by the road through town,
The horse's legs moved as the rush
Of water in rain's hand. He carried
Himself in the suit of a northern
Banker, his slacks muddy at the fringe
From the soil I tilled. He passed
From thought and presence, but
As I left town to the bay
To check the traps I had set,
I came across his oak root
Wreckage, his brandy stood waiting
For the small waves to carry them
Away, And the only sounds left
Of the blur were the weak calls
Of a proud stead.

Travels to Elsweyr
Away from the muggy downs
Of the khajiit towns, where
The light falls on the distant
Isles, stays the hidden forest.
In calm air, never a drop falls
On the leaves, green as the fields
I saw in my childhood. And as
The bronze day steams into the ground
The forest fills with sounds like
A harp played in a warm tavern.
Here one feels sleep surround a leg
And slowly spin a web around. I
Know not if this be the case,
But in the honeysuckle darkness
The quick flights of warm lights
Laid their community on the dark canvas.
In the morning I gathered the moss from
A cold tree, as it was the only
Piece I could remove from the embedded
Scenary. Never has that moss
Lost its life in the dry bricks,
Still as calm as the khajiit night.


Daggerfall Winters
The water was crisp against the ship
As we entered the port, the fog rolled
Up and onto the deck as I waited
For the first sign of land. It never
Appeared, and as I walked out into
A cloud, unknown stones awaited.
Wrapped in a thick cloak I was given
By a nordic wanderer who I helped
So many years ago, I wandered
The chaotic streets, my hands
Cupped to my mouth, as I desperately
Searched for a tavern. I kept my leg
Against the unpleasant wall that soared
Into the grey sky, only to be
Led into an unexplained pier, and
As I fell I knew why these people
Are envious and hatefilled at all
Visitors who do not have to endure
The miserable Breton coast everyday.


The Rainy Season
It's strange, within Sentinel the rainy
Season is delayed from the rest
Of the setting sun coast. By
The day of shame the sea
Fills with the dark clouds that
Bore the plagued passage, and yet
None lands in Sentinel. We wait
Watching the lands bloom in
The quick birth of flora, sprouting
From the red sands, while our
Feet stand stiff in the arid
Season. Then on the northern
Day of Second planting the winds
Shift and our first bloom begins,
The quick season lasts a few blessed
Weeks, and leaves as ochestrated as
Its arrival, teaching all the beauty
And rarity of the life we are given.