Flaccid Axes
Excalibur
2005
cast iron
32 by 47 inches
The battle took place out behind the barn. He left his mark on the old tree though it must have been little more than a sapling then. It is the only standing witness to the end of a warriors’ life. Did he fall in battle, or did he hang up his scythe forever after vanquishing the last of his ancient foe?
Stuck nonchalantly in the crook of the branch the old tree has long since claimed the weapon as its own. Bound up now for these many lifetimes in the inexorable progression of growing seasons and dormant winters. The different densities in the cell rings tell another story about the time of this valiant knights passing.
The tree of course has only its own lifetime to watch the world. To her the battle is, if not forgotten, then long remembered. It blends together with him and me and all of the other fast dying mobile beings who have perched on her branches. To her we are but flies on the bristly back of the hog rooting around for last years acorns. Even now she rises as a phoenix from the fire that burned at her base for that short time this early morning when in the midst of the rumble and deluge her grip on the ancient weapon was rent by a blast from the heavens.
The storm, having both stung the old girl and washed her wounds, has left the air fertile as the first rays of sun creep down the opposite slope of the valley. The pig and I are the only ones out. He, freed from his pen by a branch shed in the night, and I slipping out before anyone else awakes. In truth I have watched the storm and all it has done just as I have so many times seen the original battle by the tree in my minds eye. Now as I stop to grasp the worn handle still in its familiar position amidst the lightning scars and broken branches, I am able to draw it forth with no effort, successful at last. I have tried so many times. For a moment I am Arthur.
