Caveat: Random Poem #50

(Poem #351 on new numbering scheme)

The two men fought in the wood.
Winter's breath made clouds. They stood
facing. The fight was no good.

A rose appeared in the snow.
Then another drop fell, slow -
from the wound his blood did flow.

He threw his knife to the ground
and wobbled, spinning around.
At last, he fell without a sound.

– three englyn milwr, telling a little story.