in lilac skies the star still shines
shimmers in time with the sage brush fire
twice I've heard the wind recite 'turn back'

the turning silver upon the anvil dome
burnished smooth and beaten out
but the more I watch my craftsman's hands
the more ennui chokes my throat
so full as desert carried storms
deep as a foot breaking marshy mirror
or that hope when cresting through the pass
to behold a sunlit valley and the gentle slope

I swallow - and the feeling goes
my tinsmith's gapped teeth do grin
his hammer beating up the bowl
for the gift - for him - who lies within

and out beyond the fire glow
another fire roasts meat slow
and servants skitter to and fro

as I watch the sprites within the flame
recites that wind-born voice again
'turn back the child is not there'

bandits and raids petitions and orders
all I meet with swipes of pen
and then come the letters reporting of factions
of plots schemes treacherous acts
taxes collected and moneys unspent
of my favourite wife who pines my return

my finger pointing at that star
is broader than my leg

the tapping ceases

and turning away
unwashed and unfed

I choose war chance and kingship