The Magi: A trilogy for winter

III

They departed into their own country another way. Matthew 2: 12

The old year melted. A new one was born. We did not speak of what had happened In that one-horse town. There were no words, no nouns, No adjectives at all. Perhaps we spoke sometimes in our silences.

Cows were led from winter stables, Stupefied by sunlight. We packed what was left, Faced into the night.

There was fear as we rode, Of the newborn year. What would it bring for us? Where were we going? Our maps had been torn And some of them lost. The polestar invisible, Obscured by the storm-clouds. But a curious thing: As we clopped from the town, Past hard, wintry meadows, Lying fallow for the season, A wildflower had seeded In the ditches, on the verges, Small-petalled, golden, In clumps seen by starlight.

‘A weed,’ our guide said, ‘A nuisance, unkillable, In our dialect, We call it ‘despair’. Its thorns can tear leather, Rip open strong armour. God in his mercy give it death.’

But the strangest thing, I told him: In our own ancient language, That very same word Means ‘Epiphany’ or ‘Love’, Depending on the tense one uses.

‘They call you wise,’ mocked the guide. ‘You clearly know little. Mow it in its millions. The meadow grows back. Snow cannot kill it, Though the avalanche bury it, The thawing reveals it in the spring. Burn it, and it grows from its own blackened ashes, Scythe it, and it dulls all blades. Dampened, bent, Its petals bowed low But living in the reeds, Unfurling like a flag. Wet, sweet-smelling, Dripping, Alive, Lush in the melt-snow, Stubborn, it returns, On dung-heaps, in ditches, Its pollen tastes of tears. Bad spirits fear it. The clever are afraid. The naysayer shrinks from it As a ghost from the light. Our fields would be better without it,’ he said.

One of our number, A boy who minded horses, Clambered from his saddle And plucked up a handful. Our guide laughed again. ‘You are strange men,’ he said. ‘Go home to the East and be gone.’

We rode with him, slowly, Till the border saw the dawn, And a new land beckoned, With all its possibilities, And the guide kissed our cloaks, And we paid him what we could. And then we rode onward, Alone but together. Through tempest and windstorm, And the long, silent hours, Reclaiming loved country That once had been ours.