Poem By Anthony Foster
The pale winter sun cast reflections from the wet winter grass,
When we walked down the slope past the brown runny bog,
Reflecting on the cries of men and knights running past,
Some falling wounded and dying in their desperate upward slog,
We toiled up the slope ourselves to the abbey at the crest,
Where in the summer of 1066 they waited for the Norman mass,
When they joined in the battle which for most of them led to death,
Which left the Normans life, the victory, the kingdom and the crown?
When we explored the storerooms, the dark corners and ancient wall,
As watched by shapeless figures and the image of a knight,
The dismembered limbs, the blood, the sweat, my senses they do maul,
Amidst the mantle of deep distress, and sadness at their plight.
We came out into the sunshine, which had brightened with the day,
And looked ounce more at the killing ground of our tenth century,
And so with sadness I turned and left to go along our way,
I will remember this place the smell the distress is burned in my memory.
With also unexplainable images on a photograph.