There once was a soldier,

stationed atop a dresser,

made of paint, varnish, and tin,

and a few bits of pewter.

The dresser’s in an old storeroom,

besides a vase, a window, and a loom;

’tis the shop of an old toy-maker,

name of Macduff, son of Macduff the Baker.

Every day, the soldier stands guard,

o’er the room, the stocks, the yard,

and even when day gives way to eve,

the soldier stands guard without reprieve.

Although ’tis Macduff who owns the shop,

he rarely leaves his office, and works non-stop,

and so the steadfast soldier grew acquainted,

with standing guard lonely, and deserted.

One day, a movement caught his eye,

‘a commotion,’ he thought, ‘or something awry’,

but ’twas only Mr. Macduff, the toy-maker,

in dungarees and tattered boots of leather.

The soldier observed Macduff, as he neared,

heaving, with a package that reached up to his beard,

to a trapdoor, where there’s a ladder,

and up to that ladder, he disappeared.

Intrigued profusely, the soldier wondered,

what is in the attic, a place yet undiscovered,

and so one night, he broke his stillness and left,

to seek the answer he was bereft.

Down the dresser, he climbed and climbed,

past the window, the loom, and the door that chimed;

Though anxious, the steadfast soldier staggered on,

unafraid of any challenge he may come upon.

Past the doorway, where light shimmered,

the soldier marched on, wary, yet unhindered,

into the corridor, long and straight, with nary a bend,

with the trapdoor, left unopened, in the other end.

Beaming, the soldier marched ahead,

when he glimpsed a movement behind his head;

a shadow, big, and vast, emerged undeclared,

looming large, with yellow eyes that glared.

‘Twas the cat, mean, old, and red;

from its wake, rats and mice flee with dread,

and seeing the lonely soldier, alone and unknown,

it leaped with teeth, bared and claws, honed.

‘Hurrah!’, the soldier cried, and rushed his foe,

Fighting and tussling, toe-to-toe,

Yet alone on his own, he can’t fight long, and fled,

vowing to return the next night instead.

And so night after night, the soldier tried to fight,

against the guardian, with all its might,

yet night after night, he finds himself thwarted, again and again,

by the guardian of the attic, the infernal cat, a demon.

Fight, fight, fight! the soldier tried still,

never wavering in his resolve, nor his will,

and soon enough, a great respect grew within the cat, the demon,

for his enemy, the soldier, bested yet still unbroken.

One day, a ruckus reached the soldier’s ears,

and saw his nemesis, the cat, whom he now fears.

He saw it enter the storeroom alongside its master,

who was none other than Mr. Macduff, the toy-maker.

Macduff crossed the room, towards the dresser,

with both him and the cat eyeing the soldier,

and with nary a word, the soldier was picked up, and collected,

finally freed from the storeroom where he was left neglected.

The soldier wondered, with a sense of foreboding, and gloom,

As Macduff, the cat, and him exited the room,

but soon enough he saw it, long and straight, with nary a bend,

with the coveted trapdoor in the other end.

Flushed with glee, and equal trepidation,

the soldier was torn between triumph, and hesitation,

held tightly in Macduff’s fingers, he glanced at the cat, his enemy,

but for once, the cat paid him no attention.

Up the ladder they went, and up to its depth,

while the soldier closed his eyes, and held his breath,

‘is it going to be treasure,’ he thought, ‘or some other secret, amassed?’,

not noticing that he’s already been put down, at long last.

He opened his eyes, closed it, and opened it again;

He’s standing in a city, nestled beyond a glen,

with great exuberance and happiness unsurpassed,

the secret in Mr. Macduff’s attic has been revealed at last.

It was a beautiful recreation, the likes he can never imagine,

of Edinburgh, or Perth, or perhaps Aberdeen.

With cobbled streets, and carriages drawn by tin horses,

and tin citizens lounging in miniature porches.

As if on cue, Mr. Macduff sauntered forward,

with the cat beside him as he loomed over an orchard,

‘the final piece,’ he said, as the cat purred,

with respect to the soldier, and the honor he deserved.

And so now, the soldier stands guard,

o’er the miniature hills, glens, and garde.

With a new purpose in life, as the model city’s defender,

the steadfast soldier can only look forward to his next, great, adventure.

(P.S. This poem was written back in 2018, one of the last things I wrote before I turned my back on it as a hobby. I remember writing this merely as an accompaniment to a school plate I was supposed to create—an illustrated children’s book. We weren’t told that we have to write something, mind you. I could’ve easily chosen to illustrate an existing story. Instead I spent the whole night writing a poem and ended up unable to submit said plate altogether. Fun times, hyperfocus. Fun times.

Any way this had been published unedited, warts and all, since I last touched it in 2018. A true vintage.)