Middle Ages
From the moldy thatched hut
steaming on the mountain side
I finally emerge
with a gleaming sword
and my eyes squint
still strained from the white hearth fire.
The modern man follows
leaving his right angled room
after conquering the equations
he has poured over for centuries.
The mist conceals
a distant coastline,
the goal that has devolved
in my ancient mind.
The hills I must travel
disperse into perspective,
seeming like leaping stones
on a turbulent river in the distance.
I feel the hilt
wrapped in new leather
as my finger tips
tap at molded plastic pads
inscribed with language,
and my blade
states a memory
in the metallic reflections.
The hollows between the hills
hold mirrors
that will reveal new scars
as I batter through
the wilderness
of kin I’ve never known.
As I approach the divide
between the rigid and malleable,
the dispensable articles
will fall and return to their sources.
The electronics will whirl,
heating my skin
in a humid swamp,
until I submerge
and close all circuits.
-Robert L. Jackson III
