I know we look sad; unfortunately it's instinct.
If your ancestors had seen what we endured, maybe you'd understand. We were always attracted to sacred places, the never-ending peace of holy ground, only the sound of bell ringing, the chantings and sheep.
They were on horseback, thundered through the fields and forests where we lay, some dormant others in bloom.
The noise… their hooves ripped the earth, then came the cries. It happened all over, but in the east, Walsingham, Framlingham, great swathes of us were wiped out, others so shocked they didn't see daylight for years. We don't like being thought of as sad. I know they hadn't come for us but it was a bloodbath.
We were part of it. No, talking about it doesn't help.
Peter Phillips is a London poet and playwright. His latest poetry collection No School Tie was published in 2011 by Ward Wood Publishing.