Poem: A Comforting Notion
The multitudes of now-anonymous soldiers on the fields
Of Agincourt
And at Hastings
And everyplace else
Where unimportant men took the sword in their guts
So that their betters, the royal ones,
Might have more land to control and glory to drink,
As though the applause of history were nectar that could be stored
For thirsty days when the mistresses held no interest —
These men, these victims of circumstance and hereditary blindness,
Went to death proudly
If not willingly
Proving perhaps that the effete class of modern worriers,
Those of us brooding on our end,
Are wasting what little time our royals grant us,
Fretting and pondering when we should be
Drinking mead and singing songs.
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