The old scribe, worn out by years of writing

down the thoughts of kings and masters, of stable hands and squires,

the relentless drives of the damned and the dead, finally

finds solace in a discreet request from the much loved

daughter of Pharaohs  to meet by the banks of the Nile as

she slips into the country unnoticed by spies

as she ends her long self imposed exile which had left

the country in tatters and the old scribe with no patron

or friend.

 

Oh daughter of Pharaohs, how it is too feel your presence once more

here by the now choppy waters of your former realm

where bleakness has reigned without your guiding hand

and the wisdom of your being.

 

“Hush  now Old Scribe and faithful friend, I stand here

by the river’s edge, the gateway to the old city,

not to regain my old position or attempt to overthrow

what is no longer mine to take by force, by decree

or by simple act of love or compassion for one such as you,

I am here but for a few hours before I must make my

way back across treacherous oceans and land

and past the gates of Peridium and the realms of Mad King March

because of you and you alone.”

 

The light of morning shone on the sacred Nile

waters that lapped at her feet and reflected

many times over in the Old Scribe’s eyes,

reborn after many years of dust and decay, of boredom

and unfeeling

had washed over him, for no one had made the old man feel

more alive than the exiled  daughter of Pharaohs.

 

“I come to bring a message to you Oh foolish wise man,

your work, despite of the increasing odds of failure and risk,

has not gone unnoticed beyond these shores

and whilst I am many thousands of miles

away, I am forever by your side in thought and will.

Mad King March stirs the water beyond the Northern Seas,

but I quell that desperate beast with news

that his deeds and that of his female descendents

will forever live on because you will remember

them my dear Old Scribe.”

 

With the simple message delivered straight into the hands

of her trusted guide in the darkness,

she started to turn away but a simple enquiring stammer

of regret passed his lips and she half turned back

but with no commitment in her heart,

for she was now lost to the lands of the North,

and smiled, “My dear Old Scribe,

I will always love you, you have written

my history and preserve my future;

but you have an even greater task ahead

for the time of June is upon us,

the turning of the year begins,

farewell faithful Scribe, may you rest now,

for the battle is hard ahead.”

 

Ian D. Hall 2015