A dark poem for dark February days:

Lascaux

I sit alone with the dark gods in the dark cave and wait.

My chanting joins with others, the unseen ones.

Flames dance on the flat cave wall.  I need to see

the pictures in my mind before I touch the paint.

Tonight I will paint the great bull, the one who sweeps

the sky with his horns and shakes the earth

with his feet, the one who carries my arrowhead

in the muscle of his hind leg.  I will place

my red-earthed hand over him and tomorrow

his blood will be mine and the clan will feast.

Alone I paint mind-pictures on the wall

but at night all the men will come, every one

who has left his boy years and bears the man-mark,

the hunters and fighters, protectors of the family.

We will sip bitter juice and see the flames dance,

then up and stamp, jump and whirl, chant and

watch my pictures come alive and move, hear

the song of the gods and see tomorrow’s hunt.

We will feel the bull’s great bulk, see his chest heave,

hear his hooves like thunder in the ground.

But tomorrow he will be slowed, his flesh gnawed

by the grinding flint, and we will run him down.

Then we will shout and sing and weep in praise

for this great beast who ran and shook the earth,

who swung his horns and died standing, who now

will feed our children for days and our stories for years. 

In the dark cave with its dark gods and painted wall

the unseen ones will wait for me to come again.