Forgotten Ground Regained
On Senlac Ridge
Originally published in Withowinde 120, p. 17, Winter, 1999
Stood King Harold ‧ by hoar apple tree;high hero shining, hard battles won.Land father leader, chosen folk king.Gathered he gesið, ‧ fierce fyrdmen all,to hold the high road ‧ to England’s heart.Bastard Duke William ‧ and his rats are trapped,with his back to the sea, his hired men hindered --battle his doom, fighting his fate.
Round dread dragon, Wessex’s war flagwarriors raised up ‧ the strong wood wall.
Then up rode Taillefer; Joker, jester, mocker of men,Scum of the Frankland: Nithing: one of no worth.Prattling boasts of men long past scorned he then in tongue unknown.
Taillefer rode along shield wall, till huscarl axe took off his head.
Came on then bold Bretons, sons of the Wealas,on foot they marched ‧ to reclaim their own.Flew sparkling the spears, bright birds of death;sang sweet the swords, hard clapped the boards.Died then the foemen, ‧ smashed waves on the wall.Hurried Frank horsemen ‧ Breton Frenchmen to rescue,hoofs pounding the rise, horses covered in steam.Rose up the long axe, bright blade glinting,took then the huscarls ‧ a harvest of heads.Out, out, out, cried the English.Death, death, death, sighed the spears,plunging and piercing ‧ into deep Norman ranks.Red rubes glinted ‧ on silver spears shining,gave joyous beauty ‧ to Normandy’s scrapings.Beat Bretons bounded, fierce fyrdmen following,fires of their homes ‧ burning bright in their breasts.Saxon and Angle, byrnied shoulder to shoulderhad beaten their foe ‧ as they did of old.Slipped sleek greyhounds ‧ hunting their prey,chasing the quarry ‧ over emerald turf.Piled high the bodies, heavy the slaughter,died many a Breton, died Norman too;those much hated land thieves, wolves from afar.
Called out did William, helmet held high,rallied he Normans ‧ and charged horsemen again.No time for a shield wall, far from folk friends,fought hard the fyrd, taking lives for their own.Alas England’s fine flowers ‧ were mown down in the morn.
Shortened the shield wall, hardened the heart;kinfolk need blood ‧ from foemen spill.Long went the day ‧ and arms grew wearyas axes hewed ‧ the forest of men;the gaps in the shield wall ‧ with dead Normans filled.Linden boards split ‧ from heavy sword swing,shields now full ‧ of spears’ pointed barbs.Burning the throat, bruised now the body.East Angle kin ‧ and Wessex warriors foughtFrench raven’s sons, befouled grey wolves.High tide of battle ‧ lapped shrunken shield wall;still the brave hearth-men ‧ hacked horses and men.Pulled back the Normans, defeat in their dull eyes,feather of grey goose ‧ the last throw of the dice.Yet heavy a board ‧ dragged down by dartslet a shaft seal the doom ‧ of Harold the king.
Fled then the fyrd ‧ their hearth folk to save,full filling a fosse ‧ with French on the way.Died then the hearth troop ‧ Harold’s body to cover,death song keening, hot tears burning,giving their lives ‧ for the giver of rings.Wyrd’s worn web ‧ has claimed England’s own.
The doom dream of Edward ‧ saw England’s treesore slit asunder ‧ ne’er joined again.As died Harold, last King of the English,so died our hopes ‧ of freedom again.Fat grew the raven, slept sated the wolf,as ravenous flocks, rabid Frenchman gorgedon England’s fair body, whose bones picked they clean.
Humble man should not ‧ of almighty God askthe reasons he acts, or of the dooms he sends:Just ours to accept ‧ and mourn what is lost.
Copyright Geoff Boxell, 1999
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems