King of Ages

The second poem in my King of Ages series:

King of Ages II

So now, alone on the moors,
The archer turned farmer,
Wanders around for food and substance.
He was a nomad, now he is just lost,
Creeping around with an old bronze hammer,
Hoping to catch one last glimpse of the blue henge.
Though no sign anymore, no sun, it seems to cast his way,
It rains all the time, more than the crops need,
But what does he care? Alone, on the moors,
With an old bronze hammer.
He lost his bow months ago,
Out on the road in a scuffle,
Managing to escape, but with only his arrows
And a bruise on his hip.
Now, wading through the reeds, on the starless moor,
He must forge himself as farmer.