Thurstaston

At Thurstaston the late September sun
The tide breaking below the little cliff

Loaded galleys slowly pull towards Deva
Beyond them hills, behind, the open sea

Where landing-craft edge the coast to Mona
And massacre, druids and the women

Chant the funeral rites, wait to fight and die
High in the bushes bright red rose hips shine

Late dog rose in the dazzle of low sun
Shrubs and trees bent and barbered by the wind

Frightened men, broken and exhausted, wade
Through mudflats to deep water and the ships

Piped in by sea birds wailing for the slain

Hilbre ahead surrounded at full tide
Did Cromwell's troops gather there to embark

On their mission to subdue the Irish
In the blue tranquillity of the sky

The light breeze, the breaking waves, the bird-song?