25th October 1415

By TheShyAssassin

Mon, 04 Jun 2018
  • 493 reads
 

Bring me my bow of burning gold.

it wasn't gold.
It was just yew. And gut.
Taut. Tight. Terrified. So many. So few.
Bodkin. Sounds nice. Forged then beaten.
Bodkin. Leather, even steel had no defence.
They had no defence.
A few were found alive under Satan's piles.
Not many. A few.
I polish my yew. I string my bow.
I point west. Draw. And release.
Certificate U
Poem
Poems
Historical Fiction