The Bow in the Attic

The bow had lain for years in the attic,

Family heirloom from an imperial day.

Tired of the tales of Troy, we spurned

The legend, not to be led astray

By prophecy or myth.

Boxes, trunks,

Stained with labels to which distant islands clung,

(Their compost of old letters mouldering),

Porcelain, broken vases, wingless things

Obscured the bow and blocked its symbol out.

Now we are vulnerable to the very air,

Invisible arrows tipped with our poisoned blood.

I disturb the crockery of events to seek,

Beneath the debris, a lost image of the bow.

It is too late.

The magic we rejected is outworn.

I throw

Crumbs on ice the birds left long ago,

Paint in vain the winter leaf with green,

Spill ink upon the snow.

If I retrieve the bow

Among the lumber of stacked, attic things,

It will be powerless to heal, to give relief.

The quiver is empty as the mind of words,

The bow become a relic of belief.