Discarded Weapon

This was inspired by a visit to Calke Abbey south of Derby, where we went on a guided walk with a park ranger.

Discarded Weapon

On the ground, behind the fallen branch,
on thirsty, dying grass,
hiding in plain sight,
it catches my eye.
I pick it up, examine it -
it lies heavy in my hands.
A bone handled weapon,
a weapon of battle,
a weapon of death.

In the clearing you were confronted  -
there was no escape.
In that rising, pumping adrenaline rush
you were calm, countering each blow
until - exposed - that sweet spot, between the ribs.
Thrusting the exquisite point with urgent precision,
sinking through skin and muscle, slicing into tissue
deep, deep inside, deep to its hilt.
Withdrawing, dripping with inferior blood,
crimson fresh.
Wary, you backed away.
Unsure until the collapsing legs, heavy, frothing breath,
recorded those last inevitable, slow-motion frames of time.
Watching until the end.

My fingerprints are on it now but any blood
is long gone, rubbed away, sun-bleached, rain-washed
in those months since you discarded it.

I watch in stillness as you move slowly to the ridge
where you bellow your dominance.

Tim Fellows 2018