HASTINGS
They stood atop the hill that day
In dread. Their hardwood hearts were beating strong
To mask the silently encroaching fear
Engendered by the dancers down below.
Each English foot was set upon the ground,
And stationary at last. The endless march
From north, to south and hoary apple trees,
Was done. Beneath, Frenchmen flew their ribbons, knowing
Sunlit air turned welded steel to lightning.
Curving practice strokes flashed bright, fluorescent
In the deep and simple Eden, then fell,
Graceful, savage ballets of Norman power.
Straight up the valley came numberless horses
Thundering uphill like some roaring storm –
Saddles adorned with the grey skin of cow hides
Rubbing them naked through flesh to the bone.
The shield wall stood.
Its gnarled bark knotted into a hedgerow.
The Huscarls sang a guttural lament.
Their feet churned up mud.
A flat crack echoed off a horse’s flank.
The loud sour bite of time set off the fight
As, with dull thuds, the armies punched blood into the ground.
And then history happened.