Across the trampled field there lies

the mounds of armor, spent and gone

that once, enlivened, fought their king

and all besmeared now lie upon the clay

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Three figures, carried, each from off their cross

as ever watchful priests survey the scene.

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The Old Pretender sits at last

upon the hill he sought to snatch

surveying this, his greatest catch,

and restless squirms to look behind his seat

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“We remember this deceiver said…”

And so with guards they make the tomb secure

 –

Unnatural stillness seems to rest

like dew upon the battle-ground:

and worried, still, he sits and frets

and runs his darkened mind across the fight

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And just outside the tomb of ancient stone

Divinely counted minutes mark the day

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