Middleham

A poem about learning history at school, returning to it years later, and discovering what remains when the names have faded.

The castle catches the falling sun.
Light rests on sleeping stone.
The windows are already dark.
It's getting cold.
You can see for miles from here.

I first heard it at school:
one rose red, another white,
a war named after both.
It sounded more like a story.
I wanted to know the rest.

Kings changed places. Men fought.
Someone lost. Someone won.
Richard had lived here once.
Then the lesson was done.
The bell rang. We got up.

I don't remember what came next.
Richard's name stayed with me.
Most of the others didn't.
Then school moved on.
I forgot most of it.

At Middleham years later,
I wished I'd kept more:
names I'd forgotten,
who fought for whom,
what happened here.

Most of it had gone.
The stone was cold under my hand,
moss wet against my fingers.
A rook somewhere overhead.
I waited, but never found it.

I stayed until nearly dark
before taking the path down.
Once, I turned back.
Middleham was still above me.
You can see for miles from here.