Land Speaks at Agincourt

by Matilda Houston-Brown

I am drunk on blood and bones.
Northern France, the honest mud
Printed with confusion in
fields of cold October. My
quagmire only sees conflict.

For earth, it is laughable
To consider being owned.
My age understands the tears-
Warfare is my language, but
Allegiances bore me now.

Arrows are always sweetest
Cracking through scarred, soldiered flesh
With the smooth skill of frostbite.
Remembered wounds. Outnumbered
Armies are the best to watch.

This one I like the most now.
Out of it all- so far. Though
It is never honourable:
Fought with cracked hands, battered boots
Dirt never expects manners.

They will all remember this.
If I could reach out beyond
The dark trappings of your feet,
I would speak- to tell you that:
“Agincourt will be sewn in

songs, wrapped in words, and recalled
As a bowman’s victory.”