A poem by Thomas Thornburg from Ancient Letters

The day was blithe as she swung by,
Dimple-shouldered, hair awry,
Soft kirtled in a downy gown
To do her washing by the town;
She rilling, whistled tirra, lira,
Knelt beside the lilting water.
Arlotta, the tanner’s daughter.

When she awoke, the wadded tunic
Beneath her hip was dark, was dank;
The river ran on, ancient, runic;
She huddled human on the bank.

Upon the walls at Alençon
Bored bowmen lolled; one slipped a fart
And called a rude invective down;
There was some talk the war had started.
The untongued footless fathers slobbered,
The women shrieked, the kids went mad;
Hate fed itself on being hated
And, in a word, was glad,
And sang its song and celebrated
Its birthday out just as it pleased.
The islands of the world waited
Beside the simple sounding seas.

Editor’s note: Arlotta, also known as Arlett, Herlève, or Arlette, was the mother of William the Conqueror, pictured. There is more here.