Footman

In the days before our counting
when the knights ruled fist and fury
in the darkness of our winter
by the pitch-black bitter water,
I stood with sword and Webley
by the mounds of broken horsemen
heard the beast of rolling gunfire
and the gases in the hollows
felt the tears of fellow bondsmen
rolling down the pits of hunger.

And we paced the wooded lakeside
closing circles, hark the white owl!
Watched the king-barge floating centre
saw the hand thrust from the water
saw it take his shining sword
and with it all their power.

We tramped the bloody shoreside
to ensure we closed our circle
our pockets full of bling-bling
our knives still wet with muscle.
I can hear the horse-man's pleading
feel the cloth give at his shoulder.
Now traytours lie with good'uns
and my stomachs full with horseflesh
and my loved one's in her duvet
and she's cradled by our candles
from the darkness of the winter
and the pitch black bitter water.

I can face the winter's sorrows
I can search for sign of green shoots
I can count the seasons hours,
give no tithe, ask my questions, stand here free.