Rising on the winds, a murder of crows looked upon the earth
Knowing that their cousins humankind were always interesting
This time, the result was no different, if perhaps disastrous
Below the fields of grain, nearly ready to harvest, were burning
As the Saxons fled the incoming waves of the rage of the Norse
The villages burned, in battle, the dead now laid where they fell
But there was nothing to celebrate for the Norse, despite victory
As this village was a place where those with plague were kept
Soon their dead and wounded would infect the invaders too
Leaving more death, sorrow, hurt, and ever more misery
