The discovery, if it holds, is remarkable.
Something akin to a genocide occurred
In the British Isles thousands of years ago.
Within a few centuries, the farmers in situ
Largely disappeared, replaced by descendants
Of nomads from the steppes. I look up
From the research article and stare out
Of a sun-struck, dusty window. Horse people.
What a globe altering suite of events,
The first taming and breeding of horses
Somewhere on the Central Asian steppes.
How many technologies—wheels, wagons,
Chariots, stirrups, mounted archers, cavalry—
Depended on those events? How much
Mythology? How many, many invasions?
The global terror of ruthless savages in tents?
One could write a history of it all, from Eurasia
Across North America, the glory and the gore
Of people dependent on horses to rule the world.
That would be a book. A bird shadow crosses
The window. For the past several years
I’ve driven to work past a paddock of horses
Kept by a dude ranch. They browse. I wave.
My ancestors' ancestors. Their ancestors' ancestors.
What have our lineages done to this earth?
And now they’re quaint. I bend my head
Back to the page, imagining from the results
Of deciphered aDNA, how the end for the first
Horseless farmers of Britain came. Well,
As it did for the hunter-gatherers of Britain
Before them and the archaic human species
Before them. One at a time, no matter how slow
Or sudden, how many. One at a time find the end.
No comments:
Post a Comment