The Archer's WifeA Poem by Elaenor Aislinginspired by Bernard Cornwell's AgnicourtThe Archer’s Wife She viewed the sky as oft before The dark clouds gathering, grey and dim The scent of rain hung in the air And she closed her eyes, and prayed for him. The rain fell soft upon the field Where enemies had come to fight Man to man and sword to sword Though the sword she knew, helped not their plight. The dark ash shafts that she had watched Her man so gently preserve Drops from hells own thunder clouds Steel points without mercy or reserve. The great yew bow of sap and heart It’s elegant curves he’d crowned with horn The string he’d twined so skillfully With his calloused hands, so rough and worn. Her heart now leapt within her breast As mail clad men shouted hurried orders “Women to the baggage!” She heard them say and she turned to join her frightened neighbors. The men had no time to say goodbye They took up their bows and off they went Towards the muddy field below She knew that most to their deaths were sent. She took her place with other girls Beside the carts and extra mounts A buzzing whisper of nervous speech Drowned the men’s descending shouts. Now and again she closed her eyes The cross was made and prayer began She murmured to Mary, the Virgin Blessed To guard the life of every man. She listened hard and heard the sound Of thousands of throats shout muddled cries Their words were lost within the wind And a twanging note seemed to break the skies. She knew the archers all had loosed Their fingers plucked at the harp strings of Death Her man had sent his goose fledged shaft On a journey to leave a widow bereft. The clash of steel and screams of steeds shattered the note of twanging bows And she heard the battle rage all the more As the melee rose in the field below. The battle seemed to last for years The noise of combat daunting and loud Waned and waxed as the day wore on But her prayers continued, her head remained bowed. Salty tears fell from her eyes to tight clasped hands, their knuckles white Spare him, spare him, was her cry And then the sun brought forth its light. The army’s women raised their heads And watched as their tired, muddied men, Crested the top of the trampled hill Warriors come from death’s dark den. She searched the ranks with pleading eyes For the well-known face of her lover true But it seemed that countless men came Streaming towards her, and none she knew. Until at last the final rank In mud and bloody mail encased Came into the valley, worn and weary And she saw at last the familiar face. A cry of joy came from her lips A prayer of greatest heartfelt thanks Her feet grew wings and off she flew Into her archer’s strong embrace. © 2012 Elaenor AislingReviews
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StatsAuthorElaenor AislingLimerick, Ireland....I wish.AboutI am currently a student. I write mainly poetry, a few short stories here and there. I love to read and write. Favorite authors include, Victor Hugo, J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolstoy, Wilde, Alcott, C.S. Lewis.. more..Writing
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