"I’ll be in my ready room."
"Jean-Luc Picard," Star Trek: The Next Generation
A cold northern wind
and an ancient torque bite
against a warrior's throat
and an ancient sword
against a warrior's grip.
Cold iron and gold
cut deep into flesh:
the price of glory.
Early rays touch
lime-washed hair.
An iron-white mist
rolls off the waking hills
to the east,
flows toward the disc
lying half-hidden
behind the horizon.
Gold dances across
blue and black tattoos,
reveals stories
and scars on
the warrior's chest
and leathery back:
the only armour
he has ever known.
Iron and gold meet
at last at the warrior's feet.
Fog retreats, slides
out into the western basin.
The warrior turns
to the fading iron moon
and sings, sword laid
on the turf.
Ancient heads circle
the weapons, bless them,
protect them in the secret,
sweet-potent magics of dawn.
Spirit-voices join
the warrior's, spill out
across the iron plain
to the secret, potent sun.
Gold defeats iron
on the hillside,
inevitable result of magic
and nature. Iron
men slink into the
valleys and low places
to hide until sunset.
An unknowing warrior smiles
and gathers up his fathers'
heads in the wool blanket.
Swords have been blessed.
A warrior walks toward
the sun to die.
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