The Abandoned Shrine

The horn of France bellows unto heaven,

On the broad, Parisian road,

Is Carloman’s land,

This is pleasure

Of the Frankish folk:

Two mounts, the chalice,

And the sword.

By the road’s cross

There is an altar,

To the way-spirits,

Where once there offered,

The pagan, soldier or merchant,

For safe travel,

Bounty and plunder.

By that stone,

As a sacrifice ancient,

The wounded lies,

His blood was spilled,

Noble or serf? Innocent? Villain?

King and counts are galloping near,

Sweat did them cover,

And washed over their steeds

“Holla! to the hunt! Ever-long be the chase!”

Their hounds bark, running afore.

A king’s hand is raised, all are halted.