High in the sky as a murder of crows,
We turn our eyes down to the depressed fields.
Many shocked soldiers lie in blood-stained clothes,
We scratch and waddle over rusty shields.
Not long ago in glaring, broad daylight,
Horses squelched as they plodded through thick mud.
Broadswords now useless, arrows let out blood,
Men frantic in the hot Agincourt fight.
Now it’s all quiet, scattered flesh and bone,
The clothes of the dead flap like our black wings,
The Constable of France lies not alone,
His men lie around him like gruesome things.
We are a black cloud in doom-laden skies,
Over piles of men and their packs of lies.