by Anna Vaninskaya:
The sun was high when Gildas came
To Darren’s Ford. His horse was lame,
His lance askew, his shield was bent,
The last of his young strength was spent.
The sun was low when Gildas woke.
His horse was gone, his fire smoked,
He lay alone beneath the sky,
The pebbles of the Ford were dry.
And facing him across the Ford,
With helmet plumed and upraised sword,
He saw Sir Gorn. Sir Gorn saw him.
‘My end,’ thought Gildas, ‘will be grim.’
So up he leapt to meet his foe.
He grasped his lance, slung on his bow,
And waiting stood upon the bank,
Casting a glance to either flank.
But dread Sir Gorn did not advance.
Young Gildas stared as if entranced,
And neither moved, and neither spoke.
No earthly sound the silence broke.