Last Warrior

Only telltale frozen breaths
Separate them from
The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees.

The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head,
Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolfpack.

The man on his back,
All weapons lost,
Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds
Mingling his warpaint.

Eyes burning fiercely
He strains to find
The sign he seeks ~
Behind, the sound of enemy
Draws ever closer.

At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below
In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge
Of the fast flowing river;
The great she-bear
With two gambolling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon,
Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground.

Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer
To the eternal clan bear,
Totem and guardian
Of his battle slain tribe ~
The enemy, exultant,
Are almost upon him ~
Yet he looks not behind.

He sees only the Great Spirit
Surrounding him kindly
In loving, firm embrace.

While the enemy closes in,
He straightens himself.
His voice rings loud and clear,
Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky ~
One last defiant warcry
As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps
Into the world of his ancestors.....

Copyright © 1996 Robert Bruce (For Wynne Bruce rip)