Unicorn

I, Isabella (or Beatrice, Eleanor, Catherine...)

An elemental creature

of moated manor house,

at the edge of the forest;

I hold sway.

I parade the crenellations, 

am of the wind, the wood smoke.

Sometimes, through English mist, I see

woodland path and stream of childhood,

my long golden plait, an aspiring trouvèresses, endless sunny days,

the sounds, smells, ways of Court; Baked Pears!

They are away, at the war.

There is always a war: 

-a troublesome province to be subdued,

-a rebellious territory worshipping the wrong god;

-always some crusade, a righting of wrongs, revenge.

With crest, shield emblazoned, symbols of this or that configuration,

they go, bedazzled, befuddled by heroic code,

to join the quest, just cause, triumphal march;

there will be slaughter, torture, the casting of stories.

Men?

They are insubstantial, ornamental, peripheral, untethered, mere butterflies.

I do not see their wounds, do not smell the mire; 

mercifully, I do not hear their grunts and groans.

I am not excluded from these histories,

I am quite above them, mistress in and of my own realm.

Here, we disport ourselves as I direct,

divert with archery and game,

delight or dismay with tale.

I have my unicorn: we walk, sleep, bathe, confide.

I hold firm the domain, call morning gatherings, allot tasks, stock the larders,

instruct some to mend the cartwheels, sweep the chimneys, make repairs to the

battlements...the gate house...the scullery roof;

with wild effort and broken nail I tend to the uneven flagstones, the barricaded doors.

I despatch others to attend to blocked latrines, settle the maid's squabbles,

sharpen the implements for the harvest, inspect the fruit-picking.

I oversee the kitchen garden.

There are vegetables for all our dishes.

I will not look upon blood of pig or lamb, eye of goat or hare,

I countenance neither fish nor fowl at my table.

I look to the pike in the stew pond, destined for the protecting moat;

I prepare cauldrons for pitch, survey our exit tunnels.

In the Great Hall

when wood is gathered in and lit,

we dance before the hearth to psaltery and shawm

(as maker of music we have our own Burgundian);

we have mead from our beehives.

We dip and turn,

on the old rugs from the East, with

such beguiling symmetrical patterns.

Reddened from flame and melismatics,

hair flies, eyes brighten, hearts briefly glow joyous.

In the Chapel

we observe the old rites,

amidst sea of candles,

coloured threads;

we dutifully, solemnly, incant the responses.

But, Oh, the COLD, in the chapel, the walkways, the bedchamber;

it grasps one inside, steals the breath, brings paralysis if one should linger.

I do not believe in god or gods, saints or demons.

I am contemptuous of such nonsense, simple trickery.

Yet, for rhythm of order, to offer hope to some,

we genuflect, intone with gentle risings and fallings,

with reverent downward gaze.

I believe in the dreadful cold, that grips, shocks, quickens, scatters, dictates all;

there's only scurrying from room to room.

But I have my unicorn: we walk, sleep, bathe, confide.

Quietly courageous, sometimes defiant, I shall defend all that is mine.

I have been downcast when

-bliaut torn, kermes faded-

sickness comes, the barrows flounder in mud,

the wood store is frozen, a beloved donkey dies;

when things seem unyielding, people quarrelsome, the ice thick.

Then the will can falter, the stride be arrested.

But there were so many practical things to do.

Keep the fires going, keep the fires going!

The men, horns blaring, are off to another war, under another banner.

And sometimes, through English mist, I remember

woodland path and stream of childhood,

my long golden plait, an aspiring trouvèresses, endless sunny days,

the sounds, smells, ways of Court; Black Cherry Flan! 

I, Isabella, Beatrice, Eleanor, Catherine, here displaced,

an elemental creature, of moated manor house, at the edge of the forest,

the edge of the world...

sometimes sit by the oriel window, gaze on my domain.

I render -with silver stitch and frozen hand- my blessed companion,

who, at my side, sighs gently, steamy breath rising.

This English Work destined not for chasuble or parament,

but -with foliage and fruit- a hanging for my room...

then precious mantle in my burial chamber.

Peter Jennings
East Sussex
December 2022

The music video of this work is at 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VmnJVnBwYsk&t=8s