Upon this Summer's morn I rest awhile.
Beneath a hedge that hides a broken stile;
The shadow of the obelisk is thrown
Across the swaying grass by breezes blown.
And thus a touch of gold, a glint of green
just ebbs and flows with shadows blue between.
I heard the piping of a joyous bird,
The song that Cromwell's Roundheads might have heard,
On that fine day when through this stricken field
The morning sunlight gleamed on sword and shield.

Beyond the field the peaceful village stands,
Surrounded by deep woods and fertile lands;
The homesteads nestle down moss-grown with age,
Like pictures culled from life's historic page;
One room remains with table and chairs.
Where Cromwell sat to shape the morn*s affairs;
Near four cross roads still stands the whipping stone.
An ancient relic of days sad and lone,
A grim reminder of the bitter creed
That knew no solace for another's need.

The Welland and the Avon. crystal clear,
From bubbling springs commence their journey here;
One flows through flow'ring fields its eastward way,
By lofty elms and drooping willows grey;
The other. turning westwards from its source,
Meanders softly on its level course,
By Stratford. where the 'Bard of Avon' sleeps.
To meet the Severn: the fair Malvern sweeps
Her rolling hills across the tranquil skies.
And Bredons breezy uplands gently rise.

And as I linger thoughts lust come and go
Like waves across the grass that ebb and flow.
I seem to see the battle through the field,
And Ruperts henchmen to stern Cromwell yield.
Of little streams that flow. and flow to bless
Far distant meads with beauty soft caress;
TO grow more full and winding. fresh and free.
Through English meadows to the open sea.
Still I can hear that Piping joyous bird,
The song that Cromwell's Roundheads might have heard.

This article appears in MagWeb (Magazine Web) on the Internet World Wide Web.
Other military history articles and gaming articles are available at http://www.magweb.com