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The Battle of Hastings

Ioana Thornburn-Winsor Avatar  Send Soup Mail  Block poet from commenting on your poetry

Below is the poem entitled The Battle of Hastings which was written by poet Ioana Thornburn-Winsor. Please feel free to comment on this poem. However, please remember, PoetrySoup is a place of encouragement and growth.

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The Battle of Hastings

The cold wind north, fate took its course
As fate is fain to do
For kings fall down, that bloody crown!
And still the eagle flew.

The time had come, to cross the chasm
To stop the king untrue.
From France to Wales, through storms and gales,
And still the eagle flew.

They manned the sails ere sun grew pale
For twas a hardy crew
With thousand score of men aboard 
And still the eagle flew.

Men grew weary, sea was dreary
Til land was within view 
They were ready, swords a - steady
And still the eagle flew.

In days of yore, upon the shore,
Both silent and subdued
For who says aught afore they fought
And still the eagle flew.

The marched o’er peaks til days were weeks 
The Normans, they all knew 
It would be soon, before next moon
And still the eagle flew.

In foreign land they must withstand,
With death to pay their due.
From the forest, the battle crest!
And still the eagle flew.

To conquer all, Harold will fall!
The Normans marched on through, 
Ready to kill on Senlac Hill
And still the eagle flew.

While juggling swords, he sang the words
Of Roland brave and true.
Twas Taillefer, the jester fair
And still the eagle flew.

Dead soldier there by Taillefer
Then Harold’s soldiers slew
The jester’s head, first Norman dead
And still the eagle flew.

Then time seemed froze, no swords nor blows
But blood would fall anew,
As fights broke out, with gore throughout
And still the eagle flew.

Then time resumed, all men were doomed
For such is war I knew.
Swords were flashing, knights were clashing
And still the eagle flew.

The Normans won, the battle done,
The mighty King they slew,
That great Harold, that king so bold.
And still the eagle flew.

The conqueror, the saviour
Twas William, king anew,
Upon the throne, Britain his own
For now his eagle flew.
 
The eagle flew with doves unto
That field of gore wasting
For thus ended that “noble” deed,
The Battle of Hastings.

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