If you have no stomach for being fodder for a King or dying on the battle field you can still be remembered on St Crispian’s Day. Form a word army, storm the feast day of St Crispin, make a stirring speech, or not, and be long remembered for the power of your words.
Like light moonbeams they quietly gather, stealthily creeping through the cast iron curtains.
Treading lightly, the whispered word patterns silently amass, emerging from within the lofty mansion of the gods.
The rebel army forms a vivid word picture.
Disciplined, they gather resolutely in the darkened, labyrinthine corridors of the psyche, forming sturdy battalions.
With banners raised, they prepare to march, ready to invade distant lands.
Graceful, curling, silky, smooth little words, skilfully pirouette,
performing acrobatic feats, leading the way with striking agility.
While taut, tense, cryptic vipers, having skillfully twisted themselves from within the invisible chains, Hephaistos so meticulously fashioned in his anvil, self-righteously form an indomitable rearguard.
United the word warriors stand erect, on the mountaintops, awaiting the bugle call. In unison they surge forward, gathering momentum as they ride into the valleys.
The word army, united, buoying each other, singing, marches in tight formation.
In rhythm, the armed force gathers momentum, vigorously occupying and outwitting the foreign, virgin, white unblemished soil of the New World.
by Heather Blakey 2005