Bannockburn Crow

We crows saw the deadly shower of arrows The soup of brains and sweat The gralloched spearmen Turning the moss sour. Terrified horses churned the buttercups Into a golden pulp amongst the lardy flesh of the dead Rich pickings for us crows There was a clamour of rooks On the back of a Welsh archer A screech of gulls on the spilled Bellies of pack horses At night a stare of owls Watched moonlit women Stripping the field of trophies Later, in our parliament of crows We talked of this, how men Tear open men, providing A feast for the winged ones and the worms.