Canticum pro Heros

An Epic poem dedicated to the memory of Alfred the Great, King of the West Saxons without whose victory over the Viking invaders present-day England might never have come onto being


This peace hath seemed the shallow

Promise of a liar

Or a whore who steals our hearts

Whilst mocking our desire.

Yet ‘tis God’s skilled hands did weave

The splendrous fabric of the hour,

Which the sun’s encroaching light

Illumines, then voraciously devours

And rends with cruel hands

Th’inchoate tapestry of dawn,

Unmakes the Weaver’s image

In the moment it is formed.

The chill wind stirs the hackles

Of the swift-approaching hour

And the fingers of a feral cold

Fasten hold with baleful power.

Fell time is like an army

Hell-bent on its advance,

Whose ire shall pierce the heart

Like the blade of poisoned lance.

For Fate hath cast its spiteful runes

Upon a future close concealed

And mapped all paths of my destiny

To this day and the waiting field.