On Sandal’s Field Of Ghosts.

 

Mist hangs over fields -

ahead, the castle looms where

died the Duke Of York.

 

At the willows three

a chill permeates the air

and touches nerve ends.

 

Here fell the Yorkist

hope – body mutilated

and dragged through the mud.

 

Decapitated.

His head sent on to York to

top a traitors spike.

 

In this Yorkshire gloom

his spirit walks across rows

of dampened barley.

 

On this September

day the dank air swirls around

us like regal ghosts.

 

We hold hands and leave

this bleak and forbidding place

to the autumn crows.

 

 

 

photo: Sandal Castle 25/9/13 (c) by Ian Whiteley