When you told me the story I could see the fire in your eyes. How do you live with those memories? How do you push all that to the back of your mind and move to another land where you’re hated and vilified simply for being who you are, by people who have no idea of what happened to you, to your family who you left behind – dead in the city which was once your home
He dwells here in the rafters, they say,
among the bees nests and wood rot,
shifting like some spirit of the night
when modern lights switch on.
From Normandy he came
with looters and carpetbaggers,
led through England’s porous gates
to plunder and destroy,
to establish his lascivious life.
The only gates open now,
beyond haunting this crumbling pile,
are the fires of flaming hell.