Dramok

The Sunday Scribblings prompt is "soar"

Dramok

DRAMOCK

That almost silent whoosh of air is Dramok,
prince of dragons,
dark body limned with luminescence,
riding the night sky
searching -- searching
for Trog, beloved bride,
she of the iridescent scales--
dead long ago.

Trog

His dragon mind can't comprehend that eons have passed.

An ice age (not the last one)
felled him with its sudden chill, and he has lain
inert and dreamless, entombed in ice
until a chance event of warming wind, a ray of sun that angled
into the crevasse where he lay
thawed and wakened him.

To him it seemed a single night had passed.
He longed for night again with orienting stars to guide him home.

But now the very stars betray him.
Earth's slow precession had made of them
false beacons that lead to unfamiliar landscapes.

And what of the stars below?

He remembers the sparse and scattered fires
of the hairy ones, small bipeds such as those encamped
within the entrance to the dragon cave, scorned but tolerated
by their noble dragon hosts. Their fires were pretty, like dragon breath.

But now great starry clusters light the ground
or move in files, as ants do.

A different world. Somehow
overnight
he was transported to a different world.

An empty ache moves in to fill his dragon heart.
He longs for home and Trog
but would greet any dragon, even his greatest rival,
with open wings.

On and on he flies.
By day, chameleon-like, he turns to green and rests unseen in forests.
At dusk he takes the darker colors of night.
Non-dragons share his sky, swift winged giants
whose roar could have drowned out even Myroc
fiercest of dragons. But where is Myroc now?

His wings beat out a sad refrain: Where is Trog? Where is Trog?

To us he seems to be
only a shadow against the stars.