by Alys Thorpe
We brought him home
not that this is his
home But the new
lords
rejected him. Scarcely
noticed him there: His tree
felled in full bloom
over him
and all the attendant grove
ravished, laid waste,
carved into,
desecrate
and he,
half buried
in the unseasonal fall
cried within us.
So
my lord and I,
stood long moments, looked
to the place, and I
begged at a pillared door, asked
a boon casually granted,
that we might do
as we would..
We would.
A morning
he toiled, my lord,
just to bring hence
the companions,
until by noon-tide,
only he was left, too heavy
to bear, to lift: and we
too few and frail to struggle
with a bier
a few paces,
fully bent,
and then
he dropped
the guardian
heavy as he was,
half slid, half rolled,
dragging and wrenching,
swung down the hill
as if, eager to be gone,
my lord, guiding him,
and me,
in sidelong procession,
bearing the cold cup,
the empty cup,
with limping saraband,
sighed at the
return of heroes
out of their natural
respect.
We settled him,
under our trees, close,
by the border.
Curled there,
he looked as if
he protected
us,
as he had always dwelt
here
shelter
dower
guardian
Before day's ebb
the accidental sacrifice
upended
empty
nestled by his side.
