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On That Day

Tony Tinsley

The young man appeared,
astride a black horse,
slashing, burning, uncaring.

His left hand was fire,
a steel blade his right,
death followed him on that day.

Our village was small,
our people were kind,
known widely for generous spirit.

Yet the old and the young,
even babies in arms,
Death visited them all on that day.

Ceaseless the horse,
relentless the man,
remorseless they moved back and forth.

A slash of the blade,
a whump of the flame,
smoke swirled and drifted a sky.

Neither reason nor plea,
nor boredom, fatigue
stayed the rider and horse on that day.

Until finally, ‘twas I,
the last living soul,
In the path of the man and his steed.

When he towered over me,
his countenance clear,
I learned a sad truth on that day

The rider was me.

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