Last week I prompted you to give me a person, place, thing, and a goal. Chris was the only submission and gave me “Caveman, Frozen Wasteland, Wood, Making Fire,” so here’s what I came up with:
Sing to me, Nodd and Tuk,
Spirit leaders of our tribe.
Whisper me tales of strength and luck,
And on the winds of history we ride.
I will tell you a story of the first ones, the old ones
From ages past, before your grandfathers’ grandfathers,
Passed down to us ‘tween moons and suns
From when we were many, not all together.
In the elder days our Mother was wild, alive
In her springtide, the Spirits ran free
And from their likeness, others derived
Creatures from majestic elk to tiny flea.
What youth! What greenness!
Fruit and wine did much abound
And in this verdance, Mother’s children keenest
Our grandfathers, the men were found
This land of plenty had no lack
And thus no need for clans, just kin
Yet, when wise ones turn minds back,
We find perhaps this was our sin.
I can only say we do not know
If the worlds’ turn must be the same,
Or if our coming did begin the flow.
Still, our Mother began to wane.
Days grew shorter, nights grew colder
Life itself seemed to have fled the leaf.
As prey does vanish, hunters must be bolder
But as we caused death, we only found grief.
As our numbers dwindled, we broke into pairs
One man to hunt, and his mate
Bearing a single child, as food was scarce,
And an extra mouth could seal one’s fate.
Of such a match came a child born twain,
A pair of boy-childs, both of good health
And though the hunter thought it too vain
His mate kept both, in spite of herself.
But all was not joy, as the two grew
It was soon clear they were down to the bone
To keep from splitting their hearts in two
The strongest young hunter set off alone
His steps were unsure, for his journey had not end
There was little to be found, the land unforgiving
But he soon chose a path, his head did not bend
For he knew nothing of hope, only of living.
He traveled for miles, past tree and hill
Seeing less creatures and greenery than ever before
The ground underfoot grew icy and still
And still the young hunter kept to his chore
Four days without food, he crossed frozen ground
He grew more certain the ice would be his grave
Still he drug along until his eyes found
A tree, on a hill, which might prove safe have’.
As he reached its foot, the slope seemed to grow
It stretched to the sky, yet he started to climb
Not far up, a cold wind did blow
And he felt to his bones he was near out of time.
He dared not stop, as he knew he would freeze
He dared not think, as he knew he was doomed
He kept in his mind, stories of Mother’s Tree
Said to give of pure life when it bloomed.
As he crested the top, he could see for miles
Yet could see most of all that he had been right
The tree was full dead, and for all his trials
He would freeze too, by the end of the night.
As if in mocking, the skies did darken
In his despair, he sank to his knees
The winds started howling, screaming, barking
He collapsed on the hillside and began to dream
His dreams contained flashes of pure, bright light
And falling, no! Flying like a leaf on the breeze
And with a great crash, he awoke in a fright
And fell to the ground amongst the debris.
Surrounded by charred wood, smouldering, smoke
The young hunter was first to awe and admire.
He understood, though she never spoke
He was given Mother’s last gift: Fire.
We know he returned the way he had came
To his brother, his home, and their grief,
And though we know naught of his name,
We know he became the first Chief.
Thus ends the tale, praise to Nodd and Tuk
Carry it with you, though times may look bad
For though the young hunter had only luck,
Luck was the best thing he could have had.
I’m extending last week’s challenge. Give me a person, place, object, and goal, and I’ll turn it into some type of poetry!