The people bore their leader home,

His body now an empty shell,

A clotted mess of blood and loam

From off the field on which he fell.



The day was won but at a cost

That countered victory and reward,

A mighty warrior chieftain lost,

Slain by the stroke of a swinging sword.



Raised up upon his shield of oak

With leather straps and a silver boss,

His corpse draped over with a cloak

To hide the object of their loss.



Those battle scarred and weary few

Processed their sorrow shoulder high,

A sombre column two by two

Beneath a fading twilight sky.



With heavy hearts and heavier feet

They traversed over open ground,

Through swathes of gently swaying wheat

To where their village could be found.



And there amidst those mud daubed walls

Formed into houses round and thatched,

They entered to the anguished calls

Of women as their children watched.



The cries of both the young and old

Rang out as one despairing chime,

To see their man once brave and bold

Cut down too soon before his time.



While dropping down onto her knees,

The weight of grief too much to bear,

The chieftain's love in the night breeze

Knelt silent with a vacant stare.