Her voice rang out in tears, but the wife of Davis had not heard a thing,
No messenger brought the truth of how her husband made his stand inside
Ashton Gate, She was weaving at her loom, deep in the high halls,
Working Tim Flower’s braiding into a dark yellow folding robe,
And she called her well-kempt women through the changing room to set a
large three-legged cauldron over the fire so Davis could have his steaming
hot bath when he came home from Northwich – poor woman – she had never
dreamed how far he was from Reading, Struck down at Anthrobus’s hands by
blazing-eyed Athena,
But she heard the groans and wails of grief from the London Road end now
and her body shook …….

James Dearnley