The sun was passing behind the hills;
rain clouds were fast gathering.
In the distance was the sound of thunder
as the sound of a lion growling.

The day had been unbearably hot
and there was scare a hint of breeze,
soon the camp would be moving on,
after the fall and before the winter freeze.

They would gather in their maize,
to be ground into a fine meal for cakes.
There would be work for all to do
and they would unite for all their sakes.

Somewhere over the horizon,
there were strangers advancing in their land.
The young braves were talking of a coming war,
how they would take their last stand.

Sitting in the shadows of the trees,
glad the day was mostly done,
tired hands from washing clothes
in the stream, the women all together;
there was no safety for just one.

Pink Flower was her name;
young and beautiful, but filled with fear.
She was in love with Brave Fox,
but he had eyes only for Little Deer.

With heavy heart she watched
how he had loved her, their eyes
would meet and then turn away.
How she wanted to be his love;
but of her love, she could not ever say.

He was long in stride;
so handsome, brave lean, and thin.
His smile was like the blinding snow
against the bronze beauty of his skin.

How swift he would mount and ride,
like he was part of the racing wind;
hair flowing behind, broad shoulders.
He loved her ... so she could pretend.

He and the others had gone
to watch and keep vigil in the night.
She watched as he passed by;
her eyes upon him only,
'til they were out of sight.

She asked the Great Father of the heavens,
"Keep him safe and bring him home again;"
praying they would meet no battles
that the young braves could not win.

Silence filled the camp;
at a distance, a mothers soft lullaby
to hush a little one
so as not to cry.

Only the older fathers remained
to protect the families left behind.
None would sleep except the children;
no real peace was there to find.

She wished she could harbor
grief against Little Deer,
but she was so gentile and so sweet
and Little Deer had not a knowing
of Pink Flowers love, as it had no repeat.

So, tonight they would wait,
each praying the same request,
"Come home safe, Brave Fox, my love."
One loved in light the other was repressed.

The long night filled with thunder,
the rain thick and pouring steady;
eager listening ears for approaching hoofs
and talk of all they'd seen already.

But, daylight dawns and the sky is clear;
no horses heard but why,
the camp now filled with desperate
families trying not to cry.

Eyes watching the horizon,
the silence told a tale of woe
as the day slipped into the evening;
words not heard, of what
the heart would know.

Then came the sounds of guns
and racing hoofs toward the
camp in the waning light;
women and men running to the trees
for the cover of the oncoming night.

Dark eyes watching by the fire glow;
the enemy, so many white men, shouting
searching tents in a ruthless show.

Pink Flower, in horror, watched as
Little Deer ran at the oncoming horde.
A shot pierced the night; she fell. Oh, no!
Little Deer was felled by a shot
and a white man's sword.

Then, the sound of Indian wails were heard.
The young braves now crossed the lake.
The battle ensued in useless slaughter;
many lay dead in its quake.

Battle finally over,
White men in scurrying retreat;
some braves chasing after them
while others surveyed the defeat.

From the stand of trees,
Pink Flower sees her love there,
clutching to his chest; Little Deer
crying out in deep despair.

She felt her own heart would break,
like it could not draw its own breath,
As Brave Fox had lost his love.
She, too, had lost him ... to her death.

He would mourn, forever,
the true love that was so cruelly taken;
the unrequited love,
the night their world was shaken.

In time he would marry Pink Flower,
a marriage of companionship as it were.
But, she knew, in her heart, his look at her
was not the same as he had had for her.

She would sit, many days, gazing unto the hills
and think of Little Deer in the skies above.
She promised her friend, she would take care of him
Little Deers gift to her was her love.
© 2004 by Sandra Griffin -- all rights reserved
Visit Sandy at Home * Poetry * Stories
Used with Permission

May the Spirits always be with you!!

Thank you for walking this path with me!
Joni Morning Star

   

 

   



10-3-2008


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