A slight shimmer,
Coat the grass in silver,
Gild their edges,
Turn them into blades,
Let the army rise up,
With their weapons drawn,
Against the blinding light,
The great oaks prepare,
Tightening their glinting armour,
Anchoring firm to hold their ground,
The front lines arm themselves,
With concealed spears,
And twisting barricades,
All glazed in white,
But their loyalty lost,
And their blades softened,
Their armour crumbles,
Their spears break,
At the careful,
Whispered breath,
Of the sun's waking.