Father Of Their Line Poem by Trish Beckwith

On the hill he stands powerful and wise, looking out over the plains with keen old eyes. Long has he roamed this land, many has he fought for this band.

He has led them to food and water, watched over them as they slept, warned them of danger and defended them from death.

But his eyes are now tired and his bones how they ache, he longs to join with his ancestors and be grateful to take, the rest that he longs for peaceful and safe.

But his heart still beats, his blood still flows, he knows it is time to move to where the grass still grows.

Winter has returned like the warrior of old, threatening his family, bearing the sword of snow and cold.

Soon the grasses will be covered, entombed by ice and snow, water will stop flowing and nothing will grow.

He will long for the warmth of sunshine, the birth of the spring, when new eyes will arrive and youth they will bring.

He will no longer be their leader, the father of their line; he will be challenged by another, doomed by time.

But the pride in his blood that now courses through their veins will leave a lasting marker on this herd that runs these plains.