1340

Somerset levels

The bread was burnt, and there was no excuse

Save sleepless days and endless nights

Running from the Dames whose lights

Flickered out beyond the leaking sluice,

The rancid meres, the fields of rotting corn.

The bread was burnt; the young man slept

Oblivious, as the women kept

The fire banked, waiting for the dawn

And certain death, once the Danish force

Found the causeway through the marsh.

Pointless to say something harsh,

No need to make his waking any worse,

She broke the bread and wrapped the better part

In cloth torn from her husband's cloak,

Forcing it, even before he spoke,

Into his hands, smiled as she made a dart

Towards the door and disappeared from sight.

He rose unsteadily, still weak,

His mind still too confused to speak,

Took up his knife and moved towards the light.

Mist lingering on across the fetid field,

Silent but for water birds

Whose plaintive cries could just be heard

Beyond the copse, where spilt blood congealed

And crows pecked out the eyes of men he knew.

The midday sun was lost in cloud

As he stumbled, his head bowed

Against the squall, the angry gusts which blew

The needle points of rain against his face,

Blurred his sight and stung his eyes,

Confusing everything that lies

Before him, as if he should embrace

Death as a welcome change to all the pain,

The loss, the torment and the stress

Of battle.  In his weariness

He almost stumbled on the figure lain

Beside the dyke, curled tightly in its cloak.

No sign of wound or injury,

He dropped down upon one knee

And shook gently until it awoke.

A hermit, perhaps a solitary friar,

Stared up at him but did not try

To move away or question why

He too was there, so far from home or fire.

The young man took his knife and cut the bread,

Headless of his pressing need

Or of any selfish greed,

And shared it with the man who ate and said,

'I could have been a Dane, for all you knew,

Armed ready to take your life,

A single stab, no need for strife,

An unseen end - dropping from the blue;  

And yet you feed me, as if I were your wife,

Without inquiring who I am

Or where I may be from

As if you'd known me all of your short life.'

'If your cassock is not a pretense

And your saviour is the son

Of God, who died to make us one,

Then breaking bread together's no offence,

And we are blessed that, even as we run

To save our lives, there is no shame,

Where we are gathered in his name

And he is here, and his love makes us one.'

In simple silence they ate up the bread

Then standing quickly moved away

Across the marsh, each to obey

The call within his heart, where're it lead.

That night the young man dreamt, and seemed to hear

St Cuthbert - for the man was he

With whom he'd shares his bread that day - 

Blessing him, confirming he was near

And would be with him as he persevered

To push the Danes back to the sea

Bring peace and stability

To England and the faith which he revered.

Brian Hick February 2014

©copyright Sally Hick 7.3.25