My needle pulls blue wool
sewing rough seas the Vikings rode,
sailing with dreams of conquest.
Their ships with dragon heads and
fearsome shields along the sides.
My needle pulls orange wool
sewing flames that burnt Scarborough town
and the sun shining down, then I thread
grey for the stinking smoke, chain mail,
helmets and weapons deadly blades.
My needle pulls green wool
sewing the grassy banks of the beck.
Harald Hardrada brought his army to York,
armoured and speared, arrowed and axed
they came to vanquish and kill.
My needle pulls brown wool
sewing the prancing horses, the leather belts
and the homespun tunics of the English men
fighting to keep their lands from
Norsemenís murderous plundering.
My needle pulls yellow wool
sewing golden Viking hair and the thatch
of the roofs, the standing corn and turning
leaves of that September day when
Earl Morcar made his stand by the beck.
My needle pulls red wool
sewing the blood that
flowed into the beck,
making it the foul ford.
Mary Ann Dearlove