We crows saw the deadly shower of arrows
The soup of brains and sweat
The gralloched spearmen
Turning the moss sour.
Terrified horses churned the buttercups
Into a golden pulp amongst the lardy flesh of the dead
Rich pickings for us crows
There was a clamour of rooks
On the back of a Welsh archer
A screech of gulls on the spilled
Bellies of pack horses
At night a stare of owls
Watched moonlit women
Stripping the field of trophies
Later, in our parliament of crows
We talked of this, how men
Tear open men, providing
A feast for the winged ones and the worms.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.