Sarah-Louise Jordan

United Kingdom 

I'm 29 years old. I love adventure and starlight and I've been ill since I was 12, housebound since just before I turned 15.

I keep my poems and other scribbling at:

And you can also find Sarah-Louise on Facebook

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—by Sarah-Louise Jordan


This isn't a poem, 
It is the echo of the song the warriors sing
When they open their tents to greet the morning
And remember everything they still have left to fight for. 
It is the reflection of their faces in the river, as they drink deep and talk of those they love; 
While their breath makes clouds and birds take flight, like dark-winged dreams.

This isn't a poem, 
It is the feel of the names of the fallen on the warriors tongues
As they reach for their swords and polish their armour, looking at their comrades one more time,
In case this is the last chance they have to be together. 
It is the colour of the warpaint they daub across their skin, to make intricate patterns with powerful meanings.
It is the sound of their footsteps and the soft whinny of the horses as they saddle them up. 

This isn't a poem, 
It is the sight of the warriors riding into battle, 
Moving towards the waiting mountains
With only their bravery to keep them safe. 
It is the cool of the breeze that ruffles the gold-red flag in the arms of the flag bearer
And the soft murmuring applause of the trees, as the troops ride slowly past. 
It is the knowledge that not all of those who go will be returning. 

This is not a poem, 
It is the promise of friends to stand together, through the ages of endurance, 
Until the last day comes, 
Knowing those who once battled with them and were lost
Will stand forever in their hearts and help them go on living.
It is the taste of the tears shed by soldiers
When they see pain is testing his instruments of torture on somebody they love, and who they know they cannot save. 
It is the long journey home to the crackling campfire , with its flames dancing boldly into the night
While good and heartening food is cooked and shared. 

This isn't a poem, 
It is the hush as the warriors sleep; 
And the way that whilst they dream, the glory of their hope
Unfurls like brightly-coloured string
And drifts out into the world
To tie their faith to something sacred, 
It is the understanding that victory is not about the way this ends but about who it is we face our lives with,
It is about how much strength we carve from the stone of who we are

This is not a poem,
It is the kindness and the courage in your eyes