Somewhere nearby they killed between noon and twilight.
Their blood, slow-puddled under the brief heel,
With bone bits waited the union of decay.
In particular deaths that joined a general flight,
Stolid the land-folk died, and singly Danes
With clenched teeth pressed against their shuttered mouth
To the spattered dust. In that spoke of turning time
Each death was precise. The hill-fort fell.

At least for culture’s sake it was ended.
Coined memories of Macedon made sacred their blond Bretwalda,
And poetry or glees could now take over
To bridge the gap to where-all-men forgot.
Alfred wrote nothing down, the thanes declined
Into the crispness of age when they mistook:
They thought it was here, or there took place.

This knowledge drifts like a leaf under water now
Between sunset and dark, half-seen, a flowing thing.

Ethandune (878)

—Haviland Ferris [Claiborne Davis (CC ’71)]