Bayeux
Fascination with our own story is not
the same as self-fascination… But is it?
Which of them, of these?
Doe-eyed, woollen,
William soft and slippered?
Which of them, of these?
Red steed, black harnessed,
wetted in hardly credible waves,
provisioners, boat-makers, captains,
Normans issuing orders
from a stitched larynx?
Which of these rooves ablaze
in stiffened flame,
which of these nobles,
sainted women
near the Confessor’s bed
are grieving for their personhood,
a persona without a face,
a life which can’t be identified?
As they approach
one generation handing to the next,
a new husband and wife.
Someone must have seen them,
someone has described them.
They will stay to raise a family
but I was not there
except as threads fallen away.
My soft brown eyes
claimed the first version.
Always the first version.