He bore his cross bow with a whit of pride

The ill-fitting leather and armour smelled of dust

And dried blood, but he cared little for this

Knowing somewhere in the darkness of his thoughts

That today he would be called to play his part.

 

War to him was no game but rather a time for

Separation from home and hearth, wife and babes

The certainty of labours fruit in bread, meat and other

Table fare that for now he must forgo.

He missed the comfort of his bed, the heady smell

Of her hair and the touch of her breasts and thighs

Pressed against him in the heat and comfort

Of nights passion and for a moment was transported

To sights, touches and smells that were wedded to

His memory, his very being for eternity or while he lived.

 

Returning to the drudgery of his present tenure he lifted

A crust of bread and chewed passively as he trudged

Almost in a dream towards the field where destiny awaited.

How many of his mates this day would fall cleaved apart

He had no way to tell, nor to know his own chances of survival.

 

He only knew that he would play his part and whistling death

Would select a few to mark as his companion for this day.

 

As they stopped to make ready for the fray

He turned and for a moment saw a bird hardly a span away

That looked him straight between his eyes

As if to contemplate and say

Here we stand, we two.  You on your side I on mine.

Which part would you prefer to play?

 

For tomorrow I will return here to this field to seek my meal.

Can you be certain of that as I ?

 

He finished the crust and spat carefully away

To refresh his mouth from dust.  

The bird departed as in a flurry

He watching it go for an instant caught by its pattern

And then cursing the pressing moment

Beginning his preparation for the battle to come.