Warning Archery, Bowmen of Gower
please keep to footpath
that orbits the tower
and have a nice bath
after your ten arrows strike the target,
wash off each frown
and glower in a sour juice of flowers.
We don’t want grimy archers
sitting at the table
if they are able to scrub off the mud
that must accumulate
on trousers and boots
when taking root in a meadow next
to a dark slimy lake
and twanging bowstrings like lutes.
The truth is that Fate
likes to make the souls of maids ache
by giving them work
they don’t need, cleaning up
after filthy archers who trample dirt
happily into rugs
and smugly blow
their noses in old flapping tapestries.
Who is hurting?
The targets that look like porcupines
or the domestic staff
toiling in the castle: are they riff-raff
to be treated so badly?
Sadly, the archers don’t care:
just for a dare
they jump on the table, dance while
still able, trample
lumpy puddings
and cakes until they are flattened to
slatternly shadows.
They regard themselves as belonging
to a privileged elite
who by divine right are always neat,
no matter how stained
their attire: I rapidly tire of the pains
the fellows inspire.
Dishevelled like wet dogs made from
old socks, they pulse
and steam from the hearth-fire’s heat
like scheming brains.
Bowmen of Gower,
grim was the day you learned the way
to strap on a quiver
and sew the sky
with arrows one after another, until a
passing raincloud
was stitched too tight for a bright sun
to break through.
What should we do? Lurk in a gloom
forever because
you decided to score points in the air?
It’s not fair on the rest of us.
We serve you cider
and ale while you laugh without fail
at jokes that wrap
anecdotes like cloaks,
keeping score and
spilling while swilling your furious
brews, until we break
the news that you fixed: these rickety
tricks of desire
have pernickety fires at their core.
The whippletree of destiny
distributes the load
unevenly on the backs of our souls
like uncertain rhymes.
Bowmen of Gower,
nobody knows how to encode
your arrows’ marrow:
bones in flight, a skeletal sight
for sword eyes.
Please choose another pastime!
Rhys Hughes has lived in many countries. He graduated as an engineer but currently works as a tutor of mathematics. Since his first book was published in 1995 he has had fifty other books published and his work has been translated into ten languages.
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