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Windhover
Member
since 2003-11-17
Posts 179
UK

0 posted 2009-03-22 09:46 AM




        

This, the fourth English Civil War poem explores the fears of a Royalist Captain, concerning the Storming of Exeter Gaol in April 1655, in an ill-fated attempt to release the incarcerated Colonel John Penruddock and several ringleaders of a planned uprising against Cromwell's Protectorate Government, to restore the Monarchy by force. Most of the Royalists were killed in a Parliamentary trap; Of a total of thirty-three surviving insurgents were condemned to death for Treason, at The Exeter Assizes. Twelve were executed, including Penruddock who was beheaded at Exeter on 16 May. The others were transported to the Sugar Plantations in Barbados.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This morning, I woke early, with the sun not yet, above the trees;
with thee still sleeping sweetly, gently flushed; soft curls... a tumbling tease.
Faint parted were thy lips, and, in the hollow of thy silky throat
a heartbeat, delicate and soft... almost in me, the passion woke.
Instead; I slipped out from the bed and gathered up my cast-off clothes;
donned shirt and breeches, hose, and then, my boots in hand, did softly close
the door behind me as I stole from out the chamber to the stair;
and no-one stirred; as yet, about the house, there was no bustle there.
Then quietly, I slipped outdoors... stepped into April... sweet and bright;
such a morning to behold; beyond the stables, just in sight...
the wood; a place I love almost as much as thee, still sound a'bed.
A place of Chestnut and of Oak, and Holly, with its berries red,
in winter,
gleaming in the snow, like tiny coals amidst the green,
with Redwings chattering in the Oaks; so often heard, so seldom seen.

And, in the Autumn, grows the bracken high and dry, and amber brown;
the colour of thy hair in sunlight, when thy tresses tumble down.
But now, the bracken's stiff green fronds vie with Dog violets for the sun,
and further in, the white Wood Sorrel borders soft, the furthest run
of the Chestnut saplings, where the pathway turns to woodland shade;
and there, the Bluebells grow so thick, you scarcely see a grassy blade
about my feet;
as deep a blue as any cloudless, summer skies;
all fading into misty blue-grey... like the slate fogs that arise
in November 'cross the meadows; and then, suddenly, I hear
the nervous twitter of a Wren; the long and shivering trill, so clear.
This then; the place I love almost as much as thee... this memory
will not grow dim; like linen dyed, left in the rain; not now... for me.

How then, do I... with quill and ink; lay out upon this parchment page
my hopes for what will come to pass? How can I then, in truth... assuage
thy fears?
For they close mirror those, I hold myself... both plain and stark;
It is an enterprise, most desperate, upon which we now embark.
Needs must, we now engage the Ironsides in the heart of Devonshire;
the plan; to draw the Garrison from out the Town of Exeter,
and then, to breach the County Gaol, to free Penruddock and his men.
But, it is my humour, most of us shall not see home again.
For all about the coombs, and valleys, compassed by the Devonish hills
are Reformados... Mercenary Culls; whom, their purses blithely fill
with gold... the purchase of their swords; like any base commodity,
by the highest bidder; what price then, this thing called loyalty?

And, they are for the Commonwealth, and, we indeed are numbered few;
and those we have... at most, unseasoned; S'blood; it is a sorry crew
of 'prentices, and clerks, and such; unschooled in this foul game we play.
Methinks, at first push, they shall fill their breeches, and decamp away
when they espy the Lobster-tails with iron caps glittering in the sun;
they will not stand a charge of horse; methinks that they shall turn and run
into the snare the Reformados cast about that field of woe;
and they shall be cut down, alas... like hay fields in the summer mow.
And, what of us... the Guardians of The Old Sealed Knot? Can we yet stand
against all odds, 'an they make free their legs; this sad, and sorry band?
Or shall we all take counsel with the Reaper, round about that place
and hear the whistle of his scythe; and look upon his hooded face?

In truth I would not lay out, but a Groat, upon this enterprise.
This foolish foray to the West that simple, common wit belies.
This desperate plot, bereft of wit... all hatched by witless, desperate men;
I fear, I shall not watch thee sleep... 'nor see the Bluebell wood again.
How then, do I, with quill and ink, lay out upon this parchment, here
all this, that has thus, gone before? The truth of it... the truth, I fear?
I cannot furnish thee with this... with fretful fears, thus, laden so;
to prey, and creep about thy thoughts; t'is better then, ye do not know
the sum of it;
and so, perchance, I needs must, now conceal this thing
from thee,
and, simple say... I travel West, on Business of The King.
And, when we have accomplished what we needs must do, 'an fate smiles clear;
with all haste, then I shall repair to thee, mayhap... within a year,
to take thee by the hand, my love, and step out into April, fair;
when spring comes round, with rustling shade; and apple blossom fills the air.



© Copyright 2009 Windhover - All Rights Reserved
SEA
Deputy Moderator 10 ToursDeputy Moderator 5 Tours
Moderator
Member Seraphic
since 2000-01-18
Posts 22676
with you
1 posted 2009-03-22 02:47 PM


wow....

you put me there, and really, it felt like you were there...

amazing write!!

Marchmadness
Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 9271
So. El Monte, California
2 posted 2009-03-22 03:55 PM


Most interesting and well written. I always feel that I learn so much from reading you,
Windhover, about writing and history.
                             Ida

Artic Wind
Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 8080
Realm of Supernatural
3 posted 2009-03-22 04:11 PM


I agree with Marchmadness!


ARCTIC WIND

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