The Making of Carrion

In times of past the wings will fly;

and messages carried by pigeons on drafty winds

will, if in time, save the day, fewer will die,

or else vultures will fatten on splayed kings.

O'er such distance flown wrapped round tiny leg,

so urgently come, what must they say?

Rushed scribbles fuming terror, desperately beg:

"You know your dept, now you must pay."

Dark shadows shiver on frozen castle walls,

Torches hissing black smoke through flaming light

gather heroes to answer their dooming call,

air squeezed by dread and drained by whispered flight

Quiet orders prepare restless mounts.

Seers brought forth to foretell fate

quiver wordless as they count

the time left to those nearest Hades' gate.

While far away queering panic numbs

the courage in fleeing breasts. As pagan Mars

whips up the coming storm, they leave their young

to merciless conquerors for their swords to carve.

Evil nymphs out from the forest; they dare

to work their evil covered by terror's nettles,

their victims never knowing from where

the arrows came as to the earth they settle.

Culled victims mouth wordlessly to White Death

while nymphs rob their prey in remorseless theft,

losing all, violated until their last breath,

whence brute ogres spring from their lairs to drag away what's left

Sudden beguiling calm, is this respite?

or the receding tide sucked in by the seething

tidal wave? The silence: Might

the Gods show pity and intervene?

But hurrying demons harvest their last.

A fine yield it was and not much trouble.

The carnage is coming they know, and fast

as they retreat back to shadowy forest hovels.

And warrior waves crash in slaying, screams

terrorize the fleeing, their lives not long

as swishing axes leave bloody seams;

engaged in the timeless making of carrion.

And rescuer heroes on wheezing horses run,

eyes fixed ahead, but they cannot see

the last few minutes of their lives that are done;

and whose carrion will nourish a sapling tree.

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that grows up high over hundreds of years,

spreading wide branches whose leaves enchant

us as we retell this tale of long dried tears,

shaded from the sun on green grass so fragrant.

Does it matter anymore what happened here?

Does its tranquility mock unfathomed history?

In a distant flash of time men would die for things so dear,

and be forgotten for the rest of eternity.

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And their carrion has fed this tree,

Where we sit so comfortably.

The quiet breeze, the soothing calm,

Where we live so joyfully,

Where they died so terribly.

Oh, Site of carnage, unconsoled fear,

Coated by time, the tumor has disappeared.

And no one knowing what fate did here.

What does the caressing breeze conceal?

And a casual dig ... reveal?