Friday, February 17, 2012
Poem: The Magi
race and play,
flying through the cold dawn’s day.
Magi works his hands,
controlling them, like an artisan.
Shifting, correcting, adjusting the flows,
a flash of energy,
and his enemy goes,
up in flame,
down in ash,
the magi turns his attention fast.
An arrow lets fly,
the magi slaps it to the side,
the magi stands,
© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
The muse struck again, but was captured and harnessed and thus a poem was scribed to the page.
What is Quan you ask?
Keep on asking, keep on wondering, or read an excerpt from my novel Veil of a Warrior and you'll get an idea. Which, by the way, is still being worked on. Time frames are always difficult when juggling everything else, but I expect to be done going over my notes for Felling Abberfaun soon and then I can tackle getting Hammerblood ready for his debut—whether it be by publisher or no.