Writer, Poet, Antagonist



The very air growls guttural.

Eight men against the horde,

And all against the mud and sleet.

The heat of heart and beast roars forward as one.

Plumes of sweat bound skyward.

Sinew Cracks, in muscle, bound

And bunched against endeavour.


We strive, at the heart of the world

And each degree, each inch

Of continental shift

Draws ranges mountains capped

With bruised black

Bandaged blood.

 Clash! We are a company joined

For naught but victory.

A thud of pain and force.

The call,