F.R. Scott - Will to Win

[highlyeccentric]

Your tall French legs, my V for victory,
My sign and symphony, Eroica,
Uphold me in these days of my occupation
And stir my underground resistance.

Crushed by the insidious infiltration of routine
I was wholly overrun and quite cut off.
The secret agents of my daily detail
Had my capital city under their rule and thumb.

Only a handful of me escaped to the hillside,
Your side, my sweet and holy inside,
And cowering there for a moment I drew beath,
Grew solid as trees, took root in a fertile soil.

Here, by my hidden fires, drop your supplies -
Love, insight, sensibility and myth -
Thousands of fragments rally to my cause.
I ride like Joan to conquer my whole man.

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Today's poem is a return, again, to the Oxford Book of Canadian Verse.