What do 46 pages, the Beatles, and France all have in common? The Queen of Hearts said….

Feathers in Their Fists
by Barbara Helvey Hughes, 2020
 
They are vain and much older than the trees
in heightened shadows skipping ‘round the sun
they will not grovel, fixed on bended knees…
their grace grows grateful only by degrees
and only when their battles have been won.
 
The Archer nocks her arrow to unloose
~ most careful not to harm or break the vane
the hangman slips a hanged man from his noose
and warrior weary wonders at the truce
where warriors march against the fields of thane.
 
The Archer holds aloft her bow of yew
and gathers feathers stronger than their swords.
The young ones build their nests and walls of dew
and those are all the walls they ever knew ~
and from those nests surge sweet harmonic chords.
 
Now, bolder generations wander by
and, bitter, watch their parents lose the prize ~
watch schemes and frailties smother with a sigh
and question how those efforts (codified)
could choke, alone, from bullied cursed lies.
 
And though it’s long and long ago gone past,
again, the young ones hold a nimble pen
their feathers cut more ably than the last
vain young ones (marching, marching out) amassed:
armed writers wield against the thanes, again.
 
Yes, deeper than the swords, their feathers cleft.
They know the message written (not in vain).
They whisper Code.  They understand the theft.
So many Lights flash off and on, bereft ~
lost Liberties; dead amber fields of grain.
 
With fire in your Spirit
you hold your flames aloft
Walk On, Bright Tribe.
Walk soft.
 
March to your bold tune.