THE UNICORN Deep in the wood, where stillness seems to have a soul and evening’s sky is a dark blue bowl, whether it was wise or good, Claire went searching for the glade— the glade where last the tracks were found by the man from Brackentown. Bathed in moonlight, the open grassy meadow shimmered. A rippling pond, like diamonds, glimmered. She chose a spot, concealed by night, and there she sat and there she stayed and hid behind the swaying shadows of a trees low boughs. Her eyes grew tired while breezy rhythms soothed and lulled. She fought the sleep that tugged and pulled, and pondered on what had inspired that strange, old man, bent and grayed, reflecting on the tale she’d heard, muttered from his tangled beard. At last, she heard the distant rhythm of the beating— hooves shaking earth with every meeting! She froze there, silent—not a word. With all her mind, she hoped and prayed that she could steal, before the morn, one glance of his silvery horn. The beating grew, yet, with each pounding step, her heart felt surely it might burst apart. ‘Twas not ‘til then, she truly knew the terrible mistake she’d made. For, “Only those of purest spirit may venture to go near it.” She listened, spellbound, to the beating of those ancient hooves, like hail upon a hundred roofs! Then, suddenly, there came no sound. Only breezes softly played. She wondered to herself, amazed, in the midnight, damp and hazed. She would have run. But something kept her rooted there— a force I can’t describe or share. She knew that nothing could be done. So, ‘til the night began to fade and, quiet, close its thousand eyes, she sang soft lullabies. Time ceased to spin. She sang and sang of childhood dreams, where hope still shines and trust still gleams. Her songs swelled up from deep within. So long had she been there, delayed, the gold sun rose and warmed her through while she sat amid the dew. Finally still, her songs had spun their last sweet stories of noble creatures and noble glories. The meadow glowed like dream—so tranquil. The dew, emeralds on every blade. She marveled at such simple beauty— a miracle to see. In that silence, it then felt right to take her leave. She hadn’t seen him, yet couldn’t grieve. Her life had, thus, been just—events, while that night had been a trade of fancies for true miracles. Not magic animals. ‘Twas then he came. Not thundering with frightening speed, but gently walked the mythic steed. And as he neared, he spoke her name then knelt before her, as if bade, bowing down his spiraled horn. The ancient unicorn.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Feb 2014 17:33:14 +0000
Trending Topics
Recently Viewed Topics
© 2015