Bannockburn Crow Poem by Sheena Blackhall

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.