The Last Warrior
By: W.J. Bruce

High on bleak, stony rag, Unmoving, he sits astride
His ragged coated pony. Only tell tale frozen breaths,
Separate them from. The still, winter black boles
Of ancient leafless trees. The pony, blown and lame,
Stands with lowered head, Ears flattened to the sound
Of a distant wolf pack.The man on his back,
All weapons lost, Ignores the trickling blood
From savage wounds, Mingling his war paint.
Eyes burning fiercely. He strains to find
The sign he seeks: Behind,
the sound of enemy Draws ever closer.
At last, faith rewarded,
He sees far below. In the deep valley,
Arriving at the edge of the fast flowing river,
The great she bear With two gamboling cubs:
To fish the racing salmon, Drawn relentlessly toward
Their age-old spawning ground. Silently, the wounded brave
Offers his final prayer To the eternal clan bear;
Totem and guardian Of his battle slain tribe.
The enemy, exultant, Are almost upon him,
Yet he looks not behind: He sees only the Great Spirit,
Surrounding him kindly In loving, firm embrace.
While the enemy closes in, He straightens himself;
His voice rings loud and clear, Echoing across the land
To the distant cloudless sky. One last defiant war cry As he spurs on his pony,
And leaps...
Into the world of his ancestors.