The warrior stretched his steady stride
into the valley of despair,
Where ruin by the swirling storm
provoked him like a baleful stare.
Frantic farmers peered from caves like
burrowing animals at bay.
At ten paces, the champion
hailed the wind as it turned his way:
I grant and seek no safe quarter.
I’ve come to drive you from this land.
Thrown perfectly, his javelin
arced upward as it left his hand
And, then, the shaft was drawn straight in,
as though the storm sucked in a breath.
The warrior, his sword in hand,
strode forward with no fear of death
And slashed the foe, although unseen,
that tore at life across the land….
Destruction ceased its deadly spread
right where the hero made his stand.
As farmers cheered, the cyclone died,
and soon the caves emptied of men
Who questioned if their hero lived,
and if rebuilding could begin.
For many weeks they searched their fields
wherein the warrior had been.
They found no sword or spear or man….
The warrior had left their land.
From time to time, news made the rounds
of other feats just as extreme;
Then stories grew to poems and songs
as men recounted what they’d seen.
Those witnesses have turned to bones
in valleys where this tale began….
Left in respect: a cairn of stones
raised to another kind of man.
A Hill resident, the author believes that the appreciation of art should not be influenced by the vagaries or prejudices of biography.
