By Maeve Fahy, 1st Year
The little forest down by the creek,
Lulling the wild animals to sleep with its tranquil lullaby.
Bright leaves tumble down and cover the others who were covered before.
The trees possess the powers of silence as they whisper unknowingly together.
I watch the small birds swoop and flutter around and around the staggeringly high evergreens.
Meadows of sun-kissed wheat and barley-
My path, I cut in and out.
I stop on occasion and think of the silence;
The wind blows as gently as a young mother’s love,
Rifling through the crop.
A sudden clearing. A sudden stop-
To the mother’s love and silence and meadows.
The trees rise around me, leafy giants flustering over something,
Branches flaring, entangling leaves. Then silence. Then stop.
All is still, and calm. Nothing moves.
I see. It catches my eye. Quickly.
I walk on, but do I dare?
Is it just the intertwined trees’ shadows?
Or a stray sieve of barley or wheat?
Or a little wild animal lying there?
But it’s not. No.
It’s there. I know. My eyes are not deceiving me,
An ivory, horn shaped object,
Golden talons, their support now unneeded, brass mouldings telling the tale in perfect intervals.
I think. I wonder.
I notice a ruby red liquid flowing from its side,
A drinking horn without a doubt.
And I reminisce. All that has gone before,
Every detail passes through my mind.
The images, slowly become clear:
The meadow is a battlefield;
The trees are an army of skilful, battle ready soldiers;
The creek is a rough and ready trench;
The leaves are coffins for the dead souls;
And the birds are their sympathetic mourners.
Like pieces of a jigsaw coming together to create a picture,
Almost complete, yet still unknown.
But the horn. Who did that belong to:
The soldiers, the mourners or the souls now lying in their leafy coffins?
The thick red liquid continues to flow from this medieval treasure.
Like a fluid heart it makes deep connections and deep decisions,
I know who this heart, this horn, belongs to, so
I walk on.