Stands the Saxon Lord alone,
Last of all his fenland brood,
'Midst smoking ruins of his home,
Where marsh runs red with kinsman's blood.
Crouching, shivering in the fen,
Shaking with fatigue not fear,
All around are William's men,
Their harsh rough voices sounding near.
Seasons here so rarely change,
All are clothed in Winter's hue,
The wind makes music thin and strange
In Autumn, Spring, and Summer too.
While rain drops patterning the lake,
Upon the land he owned and tilled,
Witness Hereward the Wake,
And know the heart of England stilled.
By Ann Jones (My mun, in memorium)