The Battle

In the early dawn the Bishops' men

Shivered in the damp

But the shiver came not from the cold

And spread throughout the camp

The trembling horses sensed the fear

Of silent thoughtful men

Who prayed that wives and families

Might see them once again.

The bishops sent a dawn patrol

To investigate the weight

Of forces at the King's command

Ensconced behind the gate

The ground mist hid the patrol's approach

As they drew close enough to show

The sentries on the battlements

And an archer drew his bow.

From the topmost tower a sentry fell

As an arrow pierced his skull

And his headlong flight into the moat

Seemed that of a gull

The patrol reported little

There was nothing much to see

But the strong and silent castle

A symbol of the free.

The King's men took communion

As the first rays of the sun

Lit up the castle's gloomy walls

The fatal day begun

From the castle green the rooks took flight

To the high trees in the east

To their carrion minds the battlefield

Set a table for a feast.

A tide of black, the Bishops' men,

Equality their right

Swarmed like ants across the hill

Their aim at last in sight

The King's men dressed in purest white

Were driven back by force

And the fighting grew more violent

As the battle took its course.

The Bishops gave the order

No mercy to be shown

The sacrifice will reap rewards

When the King is overthrown

The sight of children lying dead

Made hardened soldiers weep

The outer walls began to fall

They moved towards the keep.

The rooks surveyed the battlefield

Their hungry beady eyes

Revelled in the sight of death

Showing no surprise

The pressure mounted steadily

As the Bishops neared the gate

And the desperate King called to his knights

"It's your lives or the State".

When the anxious King began to fail

As many thought he might

The Queen ran screaming round the walls

And urged the men to fight

The Bishops' men were tiring

As the afternoon drew late

And the King's men lowered the drawbridge

And poured out through the gate.

They fought their way across the bridge

The men like falling leaves

Or ears of corn that fall in swathes

The vicious sickle cleaves

The tide receded up the hill

The waste of reclaimed land

Once decaying swamp became

A shore of pure white sand.

A blinded priest was seen to bless

Both dying and the dead

As he stumbled around the battlefield

His cassock running red

If uniform were black or white

His eyes could never see

And death made no distinction

Whatever man he be.

As darkness fell both camps withdrew

Their soldiers slain like cattle

Leaving the rooks to feast alone

The victors of the battle

At evensong both camps reviewed

Their sad depleted ranks

As survivors of the battle

Gave God their grateful thanks.