For love so fierce I stole: I gave my summer holidays to save
Lambs from the butcher, built for them sanctuary at my wolf-cub's grave.
I stroked the landscape like a lute. No scentless words, no colours mute,
Could paint its music. Henceforth I had only heaven for substitute.
Sling, crossbow, bludgeon, axe and spud, cilice and vials of sacred blood,
On such equipment we relied. Our foes were misery and mud.
Each Norman keep, each Frankish hold, each corner of the Christian fold
Sent forth its sheep to sound of bells. Our prophets might have had them tolled.
Prince, abbot, squire, felt the desire of bliss that swept stews, taverns, farms.
Soft damosels ploughed through the mire with babe at breast and men-at-arms;