Mike's+Paper

Mike Murphy 10/25/13 American Literature Mrs. Clark Evans Homage A journey been travelled a hundred times over, The hooves of his steed trample the clover. The clouds above shrouding the sun, That routinely reflects off the river’s run. He hummed a tune of a day long in past, A song of the charge, the final, the last. Remembrance came and cloaked his mind, The visions of violence he had left behind. The trance had ended, but the tune carried on. As it had, from night, until that very dawn. A break in the cover emitted the beams of seven, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">As if souls that were staring down from heaven. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">He and his steed trudged on through the grass, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">The now dead and brown, was once green in the past. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">He pulled on the reigns and came to a stop, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">He strode up the hill, to the very top. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">A single tree and seven graves, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">The wind whistled though the leaves in gentle waves. <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">They looked down from above and saluted the man, <span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman',serif; font-size: 12pt;">That stood with them now, as he did, when it began.