chapbook vol.i

There once lived a young man From distant White Ridge, Was known as Archer Gray. He beat dawn to rising And toiled far into night, Yet wanted for naught all his days. Far afore morning in the boughs of the trees, Archer Gray perches and watches the breeze As it shifts through the forest, its bend and its sway No beast stays safe when Gray Archer plays. From birds trilling high to wolves growling low All hush in chorus at the snap of his bow, The shriek of the arrow that cuts through the air, What manner of creature did Archer find there? The prey is chosen For the sheen of its eyes For the sun on its hair The strength of its stride, The final note rises-- A scream from its throat. And after, all, is still. Bold was our hero and peerless of eye, Left no soul hungry, nor cold through the night. Yet wind is swift when it knells for a storm, For word made its way to the ear of Count Horn. Count Horn ruled in war-time, his soldiers too few, So his eyes lit with fire when he heard of the youth. He rode at midday through dark of the night to the dwelling of Archer Gray. Count Horn bowed to his mother, shook Archer's rough hand, Pledged wealth, fame, and glory for defending his land. Enchanted by words, by cunning and snare, Both mother and son found the terms fair. With an X for his name, the ink not yet dry, Archer and Count set out at last light. They rode through the sunset They rode through the wilds To the castle up high With the white ridge behind. When came his service, three battles he fought, Three wounds to witness the glory both sought. First one for honor, second for fame, The last for a ground that no man dared claim. Recall to me, Count, what happened that day Who met in the glen and who walked away. Recall to me, Count, my mother's worn eyes Darkened from watching so long through the night. She kept the lamp burning, she watched by the door She sat and she waited for word from your war. No missives did come. No decree was made So she took silence with her down to her grave. Far afore morning in mist and in dew Archer Gray's risen, his skull cleaved in two. The glen grabs his feet, heavy as clay But no beast stays safe when Gray Archer plays. Let the swiftest of steeds flee your castle on high From the white ridge ahead and the dark glen behind. Pray it not stumble, pray it will weave Pray you not pay for the price of your deed. Ride to the sunset, ride through the wild May the hooves match your heartbeat For what comes behind-- You fly from Gray Archer, you fly from your best, and his arrows are yearning for home in your breast. The prey is chosen For the crown on his head, For the gold on his fingers And the blood he has shed. The final note rises-- A scream from its throat.