Hastings
A cloud on the horizon
no bigger than a small boy’s hand
turns into a sail and then
a sailing fleet,
an armada of hostility
sailing towards our shores.
Shield upon shield the shield wall
binds itself together,
becomes impregnable
Loud the clamor,
the raising of voices,
the heavens split asunder
by a sharp hail of arrows,
closer the enemy now,
and arrows become spears
their sharp heads
tumbling from the turbulent sky.
Fate hangs now on a single arrow
protruding from the royal eye.
Faith falters.
The shield wall, firm at first,
breaks now and the house carls,
one by one,
fall like corn
beneath sharpened blades,
to wither and die as all men die.
rogermoorepoet 
I was in Hastings recently… it was quite rundown with all those grand Victorian houses gone to seed. The Great Beast Aleistair Crowley dead in a boarding house with less than a pound to his name there as well. Sorry I am veering here, I know you are referring to 1066 and it excellently done.
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In 1966 (1066-1966), I ran with the Cross Coutry Club on a relay that took us from Bristol, to Stamford Bridge, to Hastings and back to Bristol. We followed Harold’s route when he marched from Stamford Bridge to Hastings. It was little bit run down even then. Now, with continental and inter-continental travel, all those little sea-side towns must be ghost towns.
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Yes and with a atmosphere of menace as well.
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There is definitely something threatening about all those boarded up shop windows.
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Everything is captured here♡
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Like the imagery of the falling spears and arrows!
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The slings and ARROW of outrageous fortune! Thanks for being there.
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