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
