From The Anglo Saxon Poem by Christopher Shepheard

The hot wind rushes up from the south
And the dust of its feet is a shroud to swathe
Round warrior, tree, and trembling leaf.

Choked with chaff and the stones that rust
For the bold wheat berry is an empty husk;
Child and mother and warrior ‘bowelled,
Lie in the dust as the butchers laugh.

Ah — when shall I see (for the clouds that blind me)
The sharp green leaf and the warriors fiery?
Thrust from the dark, their spears impale me,
Hung like a harp in a string-stirring storm.

The melds that adze to the axe once more
And sweetly sing the feathered arrows,
Quenched in the juice the runs from the maw
Of a carrion gorging deep in the meat
Of tyrants dead on the field of vengeance.

Then laughs the brazen quiver’s mouth,
Emptied at last of its silver teeth.

(1995)