THE FOX BEYOND THE HORIZON
Upon the farthest verge of burning day,
Where copper heavens kissed the darkening land,
The ancient Beast pursued his endless way,
A shadow wrought by some forgotten hand.
Beneath him rolled the wheat in waves of gold,
Like molten oceans stirred by twilight’s breath,
Whilst summer’s fragrant fingers, soft and bold,
Unbound the amber treasures of the earth,
And sweetened every wandering wind with life and mirth.
The hayfields breathed their incense to the sky;
The clover spilled green perfumes through the air;
White swallows stitched bright runes as they flew by,
Like silver needles sewing wonders there.
The western clouds wore robes of crimson flame,
And every hill stood crowned in purple light,
As though old kings from elder kingdoms came
To keep their silent vigil through the night,
Whilst heaven poured her jeweled wine across my sight.
And there I stood, knee-deep among the grain,
Whilst golden tassels brushed my weathered hands;
The cooling breeze moved gently through the plain,
Like whispered blessings crossing distant lands.
The wheat spoke softly in a thousand tongues;
The crickets tuned their bronze and rustic choirs;
The earth itself seemed young upon her lungs,
And breathed beneath the slowly darkening fires
That smoldered in the west like sleeping dragon pyres.
Yet not the Beast commanded all my gaze,
Though still he wheeled above the horizon’s rim;
For I had wandered through too many days
To fear the old familiar shape of him.
Long years had taught me darkness wears a crown;
That tyrants often clothe themselves in light;
That smiling prophets lead whole kingdoms down;
That fear may masquerade as holy sight,
And bind a willing soul more firmly than the night.
I knew the taste of iron on the tongue,
When dread comes clothed in robes of certainty;
I knew the songs by which despair is sung;
I knew the subtle chains of misery.
I knew how shadows promise power and peace,
Whilst stealing wonder from the human breast;
How dreams grow thin when freedoms slowly cease;
How hearts forget the road unto their rest,
And kneel before false gods they fashioned and possessed.
Thus did I ask beneath that glowing dome,
What treasure still survives the ruin of years?
What jewel remains when all illusions roam
Like broken ships through oceans made of tears?
What light endures when every tower falls?
What song remains when every choir is stilled?
What voice replies when silence fills the halls
Where once ambition’s banners stood fulfilled?
What seed survives the frost when every field is chilled?
Then from the vineyard hidden in the soul,
Where memory stores her honey-colored wine,
There rose a voice no darkness could control,
Ancient as stars yet intimate as mine.
It spoke no boast of empire, throne, or sword;
It sought no tribute from the hearts of men;
It wore no jeweled crown nor title lord,
Yet all creation seemed to answer when
That quiet truth emerged from depths unseen since then.
Freedom.
Not the freedom tyrants dare proclaim
Whilst forging gilded shackles for the weak.
Not freedom twisted into greed and fame.
Not freedom bought by silencing the meek.
But freedom wild as rivers after rain,
Bright as the dawn upon untrodden snow,
Gentle as sunlight falling on the grain,
Ancient as winds through all creation blow,
And deeper than the roots from which the mountains grow.
Then suddenly a golden doorway stirred,
Long sealed beneath the dust of passing years;
And through its widening arch there came a bird
Whose song dissolved forgotten griefs and fears.
Memory entered clothed in summer’s grace;
She bore ripe peaches dripping nectar-sweet;
She carried sunlight in her shining face;
Wild clover blossomed underneath her feet,
And all the world seemed gathered in that vision’s heat.
O blessed summer of my fifteenth year,
What kingdom ever shone so rich as thine?
The heavens seemed impossibly sincere;
The smallest stream flowed bright with the Divine.
Dragonflies stitched sapphires through the day;
The creek sang silver secrets to the grass;
The thunder spoke in gentle tones away,
Promising fragrant storms at last to pass,
Whilst golden hours drifted slow as honey through a glass.
Barefoot I wandered through the breathing fields,
Where every blade of grass seemed touched by grace;
The living earth beneath her bounty yields
Rose warmly upward to embrace my pace.
Sweet peaches bled their amber down my wrists;
Green apples carried sunlight in their skin;
The scent of hay moved softly through the mists,
And every breeze seemed eager to begin
Some sacred tale the listening world might wander in.
The sunlight knew me then—or so it seemed.
It laid warm hands upon my brow and hair.
The very clouds with secret meanings gleamed;
The voice of wonder lingered everywhere.
No gate stood closed between the earth and sky;
No bargain marred the splendor of the day.
Hope flew as freely as a swallow’s cry;
Joy came unbidden and was free to stay,
Like wildflowers blooming where they pleased beside the way.
Yet Time, that patient shepherd crowned in gray,
Led onward both the meadow and the child.
He drove the golden flocks of youth away
Toward countries vast and beautiful and wild.
The dreamer learned that not all smiles are true;
The wanderer beheld the masks of men.
I watched ambition wear fair virtue’s hue,
Then cast the shining garment off again,
Revealing hunger’s face beneath the polished skin.
I saw despair enthroned in halls of gold.
I heard false prophets praise their chains as wings.
I watched invisible cages slowly hold
The hearts of those who called themselves free kings.
And still above the far horizon’s line
The ancient Beast pursued his endless round;
Yet through the years another force did shine,
A quieter wisdom stirring underground,
Like hidden roots that deepen where no plow has ever found.
Then woke the Fox.
Not cruel.
Not wholly innocent.
A watcher born of twilight and of flame.
He read the language written in the wind;
He knew the hunter long before he came.
He saw the trap concealed beneath the flower;
He heard the false note hidden in the song.
He learned that truth may bloom in unexpected hours,
And that discernment, patient and strong,
Can walk beside a mystery without proving it wrong.
Thus stands the Fox beneath the darkening skies,
Whilst still the Beast wheels slowly overhead.
One guards through fear.
One teaches clearer eyes.
One feeds upon the trembling of the dread.
And somewhere past the sunset’s burning gate,
Beyond the wheatfields and the evening star,
A truth moves softly through the folds of fate,
Still hidden, still mysterious, still afar—
Yet bright enough to guide the heart wherever wanderers are.
Written by Marguerite Grace
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