I opened the book.
I turned to the first page.
I read.

Each word sounded in my head like a bell.
Each sentence flashed about, like a raging symphony.
Each paragraph changed my very perception.

I felt my worldview shifting.
I felt everything changing.
I wanted to tear my eyes away.
Something screamed inside.

Nooo!
No, stop.
No more!

But my hand turned the page,
and my eyes could not tear away.
And another,
and another,
and another page I went.

The light around me dimmed.
It became dark, but still I read,
into the night.
Deep into the night I read.

Finally, as sun tipped horizon,
a small bead of light wreathed in dark,
I came to the last page.

My fingers trailed over final words,
in a daze,
then I closed the book and stood.

And though I stood still,
the world spun.

And I knew what I had become.


© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Any lover of books can relate. Relate to what happens when you lay hands on a book that transforms you, shifts you to another realm, another time, another body, another world. Thoughts, concepts, entire peoples presented before you in compelling fashion that transport you.


Is this what happens to you? Do you become something greater and grander when absorbed by a book? It can for me and there is a certain power within that ability.

I am Tristfallin, Knight of Corenne, Order of the Deep,
My orders are always to keep:
The Faith, from the evils of Fire,
Persecution and undue Ire.

Let my arm be strong, my aim be true,
My shield hold and my virtue:
Stand.

In the quiet and shadows I do train,
Waiting, patient—as those, that before came,
I sharpen my blade,
I oil my steel,
And I prefer for that one day:

When the waves will rise and the sun falls fast,
When the Knights of Corenne rise to the task.

Let it be soon,
Let it be now,
For I tire and ache,
Of seeing fellows hung low,
When our colors SHOULD show.

© 2012 Clifton Hill, all rights reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
A small taste, as it were, of my novel Felling Abberfaun. The Knights make an appearance in the novel that is both beautiful and sad, all in a hope to challenge religious tyranny that drove their peaceful order to near extinction. One day I will share their plight with you. For now, a poem will do.

An anvil rings a deadly chant,
The forge blows a searing heat,
The blacksmith drums a solemn beat,
Upon his work and in his room.

The flat of metal, fashioned ere,
Glowing white and angry red,
Each hammer strike,
Nearing done.

The blacksmith pauses, seeing blood,
Slick and thick upon the steel,
Running deep, running far.
A curse, a pox, a mighty dread.

Eyes wide and breath so quick,
The blacksmith looks to the back,
Where family lies, deep asleep,
Innocent of all but: dependence.

Raising solid arm again,
The hammer deals out the truth,
Careless of the guilty tears,
Careless of the helpless rage.

A blade is fashioned, doused and drawn,
Ready for its deadly song,