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A Pilgrim's Path The heat scorches my cape; In the midday boil of late summer; The path descends to a shape of fields, and wooded hills Hedgerow's caterpillar the tracks, Down which I trudge. Behind my pony clumps, Packed with water, Last end of our journey I reach the Abbey, In the east stands Its lordly spires I spot. We will not stop till there. To St. Lawrence church, And the grave of a martyr. I see humming bees A bee lifts itself to a bounty of flowers To suckle some honey blossom. Birds chirp and crickets throb. A Fanfare to the Battle Well, The place of death of our Baron A voice he would quell A body mutilated, and genitalia hacked To warn other rebels Do not tell of my journey. To adore a sullied legend If anyone asks; I am to the town gloried To visit the maidens, To buy new boots for my aching feet. Near the garden which grows the spire and guards. The remains of an enduring martyr. By Rachael Ann Loxston