The Grave of Robin Hood

By Lynn Michael Martin

Beyond the nunnery,
deep buried in the wood,
beneath the boughs of an oaken tree
is the grave of Robin Hood.
For he was the friend of merry men,
and stout and bold and good.

Upon that grave there lies
no bow of Spanish wood,
no arrow of a yeoman flies
above stout Robin Hood.
For he was the friend of merry men,
and stout and bold and good.

Yet such a bow he drew,
no other yeoman could
match the swift shafts of cloth and yew
as shot fair Robin Hood.
For he, etc.

He drew his dying shaft,
his eyes upon Sherwood,
and with two bitter hearts they laughed,
laughed John and Robin Hood.
For he, etc.

His mark he’d never fail,
if deer or split of wood,
but he drew not for a hart or pale
when last drew Robin Hood.
For he, etc.

And speeding through the air,
into that brave Sherwood,
the arrow carried on its fare
the breath of Robin Hood.
For he, etc.

So we who miss our mark
more often than we should,
we also shoot into the dark
as then did Robin Hood.
For he, etc.

Yet shall we nock the shaft,
and as fair Robin stood,
and laughing as fair Robin laughed,
we’ll draw into the wood.
For he, etc.


Lynn Michael Martin hopes that his poetry can connect with others who struggle with the tension between a glorious hope and a self-interested realism—and who find it hard to be content with the complex and muddy life that usually results. 


Photography by Kenneth Godoy

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