Monday, 9 February 2009

The archer

I feel the weight of the quiver
A gift and a burden of fire in my bones
The forest is silent and I pluck the bow
It sings like an instrument

I reach back to feel feathers
Drawing out smooth and straight
The heart of a tree
And a red tip

I hear the oak leaves shiver
And suddenly I can smell the earth
In the meeting of taut string and limb
My arms strengthen

I do not shoot
I am waiting and watching
Learning the names of my arrows
Tuning string to match strength

When the wind blows again
The trees will open a path
With clear eye and steady hand
I will be ready


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