The Unicorn’s Horn
Freya was hounded, bullied,
always on the run.
“Leave me alone!” she would shout!
“I hate your idea of fun!”
Then, backed into a corner,
in the bush, against a tree,
something caught Freya’s eye,
so she pried it free.
“A unicorn horn!” Freya gasped.
marvelling this thing so grand.
She could feel its energy,
the magic in her hand…
She ran that little bit harder,
to escape the maddening crowd,
finding a place alone,
in which she could think aloud.
“So what am I meant to do,
with this, the rarest of gifts?”
as the bush grew dark,
and slowly filled with mists.
“Make a wish,” a gypsy said.
“Make it fast and make it true.
If you happen to wish right,
that wish will come to you.”
“But first remember,” she warned
climbing back up to the moon,
“never has a wish been free,
you must deserve your boon.”
Not quite sure what that meant,
Freya made her plan,
to wish on something mighty,
to wish on something grand!
To fly just like a kite,
or run with a pack of wolves,
hang out with volcano monsters,
or imprison bullies at school.
To play in a popular band,
to live in a fairy tale.
To solve the world’s problems –
with that wish she couldn’t fail!
Yet every time Freya asked,
not one of her wishes came true!
Not a single problem was solved.
Pirates never made bully stew.
Disappointed, Freya looked hard,
at this horn with no life,
wondering what unicorn wore it,
was it a brutal beast or nice?
Was it tall, hansom and proud,
could it talk, could they be friends?
Was it wild, untameable, free!
Or did it have love to send?
Freya imagined every colour,
every magical unicorn hue.
Would it attack her on sight,
trample her under its hooves?
Meanwhile the gypsy had been watching,
from her hut, carried through the bush,
by giant chicken legs,
and owls with majestic hoots.
“I feel very immense pressure!”
Freya, humbly, did confess.
“From everybody and every thing,
thinking they know what’s best!”
“To have this horn studied by science,
or doubters at school laugh and laugh,
to fight to keep it safe,
from poachers wearing fox masks.”
“But most of all I’ve learned,
-surely, a good thing to do-
I have only one wish I can make,
if I want that wish to come true!”
Dodging doubters and thieves,
hiding from witches, too,
Freya rowed back to the bush,
under a glorious moon.
There she threw the horn,
back to where it belonged,
where imagination ran wild,
and fairies sang their songs.
“Thank you,” Freya whispered to the night.
“A unicorn horn is such a marvellous gift,
but in the wild is its best home,
where the legend properly fits.”
And, by giving up such beauty,
to Freya, the night gave back,
the one thing she truly wished for,
for which words sorrily lacked.
(Glowing blue unicorn, walking out from behind tree to greet Freya.)
(Small fade-out image of Freya patting unicorn’s neck amongst the trees.)