Honour
‘ all those who had previously surrendered to him. . . on the march to Agincourt were under oath to givethemselves up to him. And to a man they did so.’ Juliet Barker Agincourt
Yet some of them died in Henry’s England -Not the England the scarecrows knew:Falstaff’s merry bandSwearing before the sweet cross forA hope of a world made for them -Or cursing in their vermin-ridden slums.But the England divided unto deathBy annointed kings, lords and the church;A land where the sacred belief in rank,Power and privilege acknowledged stillThe miraculous power of words -
Which lingers still as men and womenKneel as serfs once knelt before their lord.They rise, honoured and transformed,Like Hercules perhaps who became a god -But the palace, not Olympus, casts a spell.I hope though, as they polish their gongs,They hear, if only faintly in the night,A voice which cries: this is strictly for the birds.