Ambush
The words were there within me In the core, the secret storehouse of myself Before my lips moved You smiled called me a steppe falcon And notched your bow. The subtext was steel The last leaves of summer falling Many mailed feet on the woodland road From Danzig to Novogorod That tumble heavy on the moss Their feet are pilgrims, tramping as they come Their tabards monochrome A Teuton’s foot on Slavic soil. The word rang out in the forest tongue And the world was fast with war. How can I unsay my heart, love? How can I take back the word? It would be easier for those chained feet to undo each step. Simpler, to lay each leaf Back in the boughs of silent trees.
—Gabriel Olearnik
Gabriel Olearnik studied medieval history at University College
London. He is currently an attorney and practices corporate law.
