The Archer

By Niamh Handley-Vaughan

You are the son of warriors,

Riding on horseback, bare chested, swords raised,

Screaming fearless rebellion in the name of something

that all these years later you can’t quite put your finger on.

Archer, hunter, the tip of your arrow

Never misses your target,

it whistles past hummingbirds, open flowers singing their scent

fragrant, beauty your soul would ache for.

But your mind is on that metal point searing

into the heart of your enemy.

Fighter, lone wolf you wander the night past mountains and rivers.

I feel sorry, for any bandit that falls into your path because they will

lose. Your father and your fathers father passed down those teachings,

Fed them to you like dripping honeysuckle

Fist, sword, bow, bring down your enemy.

Sweet acid in your mouth. For years.

As dawn comes you take off your helmet

salty sweat released from battle.

You look at your reflection in the lake and wonder,

“Who left that little boy here in that heavy armour?”

You look around and find your steed gone, lost in the woods.

Alone, where is your enemy now?

You feel him near, you always have.

Dagger in hand.

Fearful rebellion.

Warriors… do not exist, they are not human.

But you are, sweet boy, I am sorry.

Yet you have done those things that warriors do,

Like your father and your fathers father,

You have burnt, slashed and trampled through mud bodies crunching

underneath and blood is too familiar now.

Dagger in your hand, you bring down your enemy.