Middle-Ages

 I heard a clash, and a cry, 
And a horseman fleeing the wood.
 
The moon hid in a cloud.
 
Deep in shadow I stood.
 
‘Ugly work!’ thought I,
Holding my breath.
 
‘Men must be cruel and proud, 
‘Jousting for death’.
 

With gusty glimmering shone 
The moon; and the wind blew colder.

A man went over the hill, 
Bent to his horse’s shoulder.
 
‘Time for me to be gone’.
.
.
 
Darkly I fled.
 
Owls in the wood were shrill,
And the moon sank red.

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