Soldier Of Fortune

Tattered flags
Hanging limp in the morning mist
Lay claim to the presence of men

They are everywhere
Yet nowhere

A lone figure walks amongst them
Occasionally bending down

The parting mist reveals him in more detail

Now it can be seen that he is kin to the flags
His face slack
Hands covered in blood

Muscle memory is all that seems to guide him
As he relieves the pockets of those he meets
Removing any last burden
Any small trinket of value

He came here a peasant
Armed only with bravado
And a sharpened pike

He will return home with riches
Gold and silver from those he ministers to
The nobles of France

Here

Here then

In this field of Agincourt

Is the true victor

© 2008, Mosquitobyte