Poetic account of Gorsedd 1101

Poetic account of Gorsedd 1101 by Sir Geoffrey Walker On arrival a grand hall, Rich in hearty foods and wines, Company unsure, save for old friends from other places, Gorsedd begun in ceremony. Dancing is brought, Angharad brings soft instruction to the improbable, Lovers steal glances in closeness of hall, Musicians jest in their tempo….

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The Company Of The Boar’s Last Stand

The poem refers to the disasterous battle of Dunwich Vale in the spring of 1104, where goblin forces decimated the Harts’ expeditionary force to the area. Well over a dozen Harts fell attempting to hold the village; amongst them General Lysander Constantine, Baron Miles Osbourne Hulce and Baron Richard Falcon, plus every single member of…

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The Earl & The Thief

By William Hulce of House Hulce This poem was an entry in the contest of bards held between the people of Cornwall and the rest of Albion during peace talks early in 1106. It satirises events in The Greenwood almost a year earlier when Earl Tylendal of The Hunters challenged Puck’s claim to be an…

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The Enemy

Oh grief immeasurable, The fallen seem as mere sacrifices to your dark cause, My eyes can no longer bear to see the death Inflicted by your unhappy hands, Twisting your dagger poisoned with lies into Innocent bodies, But in your jaded eyes all are guilty, Is this a sacrifice you offer? You call all Albion…

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Guardians

By Solstice of the Company Of The Blackened Staff The poem “Guardians” is a modern composition but deals with one of Albion’s oldest and most enduring legends – the knights of Arthur. It is said that during the mission to recover the Pendragon Throne from its burial place in Empire-occupied Cornwall, members of the Harts…

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Hereford

Proud she stood in Albion’s sun Now burnt and broken, a lifeless one Red now glows the evening sky As ashes towards the zenith fly Silence stalks the darkening night Statues of grief seen in embers light Night lays claim to heart and soul As pain and loss now take their toll As daylight stirs…

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Wychwoods

From the library of Edward James "That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland…

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