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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