Ancestral voices 3, the Englishman

For me it is different.
My ancestors were not meek.
William the Bastard was one,
Far from weak.
Others there were who, taken in robbery,
Preached at Tyburn,
Proud in their yobbery.
As for my purpose,
Historical destiny,
Meaning and what,
Some of my forebears,
Back in the past somewhere,
Remembered on stones
In the parish churches,
Among ancestral bones,
Only they knew.
Or perhaps they knew not.

The man from the fenland, what did he do?
History trails like a silken train,
Fills the harbour like ripples of rain.
Onto the isle steps one from elsewhere.
Good luck to him I say
I hope he enjoys his day.
So, Pete from the marshes, I have inferred,
We supped ale together, you, I, and your mother,
In the Old King's Arms, (King Edward the Third),
I master of one trade and you of another.
I try to remember,
Discern through the mist on the nearby hill,
Castle and church and shade of mill,
Something we did, some action performed,
Some effort of striving that turned out ill.
Looking in retrospect all is transfigured.
And that one who called, who was that Malay?
Something was triggered,
Some consummation, then or today.

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