Monday 25 May 2015

Conquest

In his Wolf Hall, Hugh d’Avranches is brooding,
Leaning upon his rough-hewn window sill.
From his tower, his stronghold, stranglehold,
He surveys his newly won domain.
The motte and bailey rear up proud
Out of the soft land like a fist.
The mound of bare earth is red as blood;
Ah, but this Welsh hill was won hard enough.
The peasant farmers spilled their guts in vain.
The magpies are still feeding, he notices.
Entrails smeared down the sides of the hill
Where the fair flowers of spring were trampled
By war horse and mailed feet.
He shifts his gaze to the hazy horizon.
These are his lands. His.
Centuries of certain dominion unfurl before him,
Dominance built in stone and glass arise.
The coffers overflow, replenished by that lovely stream
Of taxes, levied upon the poor.
His kind will divide and rule,
Setting communities against each other,
Suspicious of the immigrant, the vagrant and the rebel.
Finally, as vanquished bow their knees and heads,
He sees how his superior race
Will lord over serfs, the sick, the poor.
But today there will be hunting a-plenty,
Crops in those fair fields already
Hoarded for his hall.
After all, the villages have less mouths to feed now.
Yet hungrier still is the heart of Hugh.
He knows what they call him,
“Hugh Le Gros”, grown fat on conquest.
His banner borne before him in procession
To cathedrals built to keep this land
Under the Norman heel,
Proclaiming God, Freedom and the Law,
Conserving the Rights of the noble ones.
The silver wolf, its mouth agape,
Is argent on azure.
He grins, seeing instead
A bloody Wolf’s Head, gore and gold.

© Lisa Rossetti 2015



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