WARRIOR
My thumb glides over the well worn iron
Of my swords hilt,
A deflection of the evil cast,
As the Saxon wizards dance,
Cursing, spitting and screeching.
One, his hair spiked with cow dung
Thrusts his scrawny hips at us,
Dribbling and pissing into the wind.
The baleful drums echo deep in the vale
Banners, so many banners,
Some just ragged strips flutter unfettered.
I look toward our Druid ghost fence
Built to hold their spirits at bay,
Rotting heads on spear points
Eagle stones as eyes.
Our line is thin but full
With the finest warriors of Britain,
Stood atop Mynedd Badon
Awaiting the assault from Aelle’s horde.
The stench of mead and ale
From horns in bravado’s draught,
Fire a man to savage quest
The day may be his last.
I stay sober with water from the stream,
A battle is to be won.
Hefted spear with razor point
And ‘Widowmaker’ by my side,
We shuffle into line
Shield against shield.
The Saxons start their march forward
War drums hammering our skulls,
With the roars of ale fired men
Cursing us to our graves.
My brother in arms Culhwych
Linked shield next to me,
At the centre of the line
Plants his foot for the crash.
The shields splinter and the grunting
And shoving begins,
Axes flail, swords thrust
And spears tear out the souls
Sending fallen men to the otherworld.
A brutish fiend of filth and wild eyes
Spits at me through rotted teeth,
“You die worm, I’ll feast on your brain
Then pleasure your woman”
His pain was exquisite
As Culhwych tore out his throat,
The sword leaving a crimson spray
I’m soaked from his bubbling, mewing death.
Spears discarded we are beating down
The Saxons falter under our fury,
My feet slip on entrails
A wounded Saxon crawls in his gore.
His lights extinguished
An axe crushes his skull.
Arthur, Galahad and Lanval are here
The warriors of the round table,
United to save our Kingdom
On the stinking, killing field of Badon.
The Saxons line is broken
The carnage of lust begins,
Once proud, armoured warriors now flee
Pursued by a rabid mass hunting death
Lives are ended by the savage blades.
I stand, my blood lust waning
I see a whimpering boy, not a man at all,
His arm severed neatly, his face pathetic
His eyes pleading with me,
As I stand over him, massive and square
My warrior rings fashioned from vanquished swords
Adorn my fingers.
Blood dripping from ‘Widowmaker’
I smile at him, He begs for water.
I kill him, spinning his soul to Crom Dubh.
Arthur wants Britain free of Saxons,
I am a warrior of Britain
Chrachuan of the round table,
I kill Saxons.
Phil Hall May 2013
phil this is so graphic it almost made me sick. especially the little boy. i hate war if more people saw it through your eyes maybe just maybe it would have an impact that modern media glosses over and glamourizes. this is worse than i imagined it would be. i hope you did not have to live his life. he may have fought hard with honorable intentions but his nights were sleepless, and his soul restless. this warrior is so real keeping a clear head, smiling as he killed a child. a born trained, seasoned killer maybe he had no soul and needed little sleep. the prize of the battle his finest reward. xxx
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