The Peat Warriors

about turf, about water..

Dressed in turf,

grinning with bronze teeth,

eaters of skull and

burners of abbeys,

Cold with the blood

of heavy horses,

black- boned and wolf- eyed, as

senseless as a winter tide,

cutting the throated air

of stolen girls, a Northern wind

of ill intention, the rained crowd

of wet shapes that bangs

the runed drums.