My father is going into the ground today.
He's in a wooden box
With his bow at his side
Under the tree he shot his arrow into.
I don't understand.
Why would anyone want to kill him?
Why would they hurt my father?
The hero,
The knight,
The leader,
The protector of the innocent,
Mother cries at night
Sobs into the place where her Robin once laid his head
She thinks no one can hear her
I can.
Little John works fervently
He builds things,
Chops things,
Burns things,
He says he must work or he'll kill himself.
Me?
I don't talk at all.
I remember,
How my father used to carry me on his shoulders,
How he taught me to shoot ,
How his eyes lit up when anything good happened,
How he danced with my mother by the fire, laughing merrily,
How he told me once,
That if anything bad ever happened to him
I would be the man of the house,
And I would have to look after mother and the girls.
I thought that would never happen,
I was wrong.
Father is in a wooden box
And he's going in a hole under a tree.
All the Merry Men are here,
Mourning their lost leader,
The first of all of them to die.
Alan A-Dale holds mother's shoulders
While she sobs into Will Scarlet
Friar Tuck does the ceremony.
Then mother and I
And my three little sisters
Throw flowers into his grave.
I want to go home.
I hate seeing my father in a box,
He doesn't belong in it.
He belongs beside my mother.
I saw him after he died,
Before they put him the coffin.
Little John told me not to
But,
He can't tell me what to do.
My father was white,
And I could see the gash on his arm.
John had changed him out of the clothes he died in,
And burned them
He was dressed in his best tunic.
Mother made it for his birthday last year.
My father seemed peaceful
Though I know he died with tears on his face.
I took two things from him,
I knew he wouldn't mind.
The dagger from his belt,
And lock of his hair.
I thought about taking his wedding ring,
But he would want that in heaven,
To remind him of his wife.
Then I kissed his forehead
And walked out of the room.
Mother noticed the dagger,
I wear it on my waist now.
But she did not say anything,
Just nodded.
My littlest sister is crying,
Wiping her nose on her dress.
I wonder if she will remember him,
Maybe she will,
Or maybe he will be just a story to her.