Forgotten Ground Regained

Extract from "Malfosse"

The gloom gathers, goading the foe; hammering hooves ‧ herald their charge.Steep the defile, stony of face --plenty of knights ‧ plunge to its depths,but fewer greet ‧ our girded fastness, rush these ramparts, raw in temper. Corslet cleavers ‧ clash in fury,aim of the axe ‧ arcing downwardsand striking swords ‧ spark in darkness.The blades' bragging ‧ breaks on sheer cliffs,rebounds in waves: Weapons echo;the foe falters, flees a-shrieking.Malfosse! Malfosse! Their murder ditch!And so will wait ‧ awhile my death.
Wulric has fled. Wulfgar is dead,free from duty ‧ due his lord.And ranged on ramparts ‧ round below meis dying fyrd ‧ with dying foe.Their dusk chorus ‧ calls to the dark.The year is yearning, yielding its last.Turning is fate, twisting our lives.Andredesceaster ‧ cheered our new year,Santlaches' grimness ‧ grieves the last day --not many miles ‧ removed on earth.The start and end ‧ our era marks.I watch the wake: our world, year’s dead.Our sun has set; the sky darkens.Hark the horses, with hooves drumming:Malfosse moonrise ‧ not mine to see.
Martin Vine's prefatory note in Withowinde: Malfosse was the final action of the battle of Hastings. After the death of King Harold, some English warriors made a last stand in an old earthwork which topped a steep hill. The following extract from my poem about this incident was recited at this year’s feast in Battle.
Originally published in Withowinde 104, p. 27, Winter 1995
Copyright © Martin Vine, 1995
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