The Gift Horse
The sun lashed our backs as we pushed and guided
its stout shanks, the excitement building when we neared
the city walls. Ten years of war had left us exhausted
beyond belief, and the joys of victory created
a carelessness in our defenses.
When the great wooden victory spoil appeared,
we were awestruck. We welcomed the gift
to our city of heroes but we never thought
to check inside its wooden ribs.
With ropes and mules, we wrangled this
oak-hewn horse into our stable. Crowd noise
swelled as the men groaned in sweltering
heat, masking the rustling inside.
Pitchers of water sated the masses
as the cheers rose and fell like the oars
of the Greek ships sailing off in defeat.
The overcast skies seemed an omen
of the coming bloodshed. As sunlight escaped
through the foreboding clouds, our happiness swelled,
and as the victory spoil rolled through the gates,
songs of joy rained down.
One final yank, and the horse creaked
to a stop, secure like our city
after many years. As night descended,
we hoisted the wineskins
for a final toast before settling in
for an eternal sleep.
Luke Mercer