From Proclamation: Poetry will be the death of me:
“The Duke of Northumberland’s eyes drooped half-closed in the stultifying heat. The clinking of the harness and the rattle of the weaponry were a familiar lullaby to this old soldier, who, following the well known army maxim, was taking his ease while the opportunity presented. Suddenly, his eyes widened in alarm, and he looked around with professional intensity. Something has changed. What is it? The column of men still surrounded him, their familiar sounds and smells confirming their visible presence. There is no other sound! The distant lowing of cattle had been left behind. The birdsong had died in the vault of heaven and the canopy of branches. Even the rub and buzz of insects had faded from perception. That is it! If one ignored the noise of man and horse, an unnatural silence reigned. This kind of silence presages a storm. But not yet. No, not yet. For now, there was just the stillness and the oppression. Rain cannot hurt me. I have survived it before. Indeed, it may offer me opportunities…I will think on it… He settled back into his saddle and let the silence fold around him like a cloak. Dreamily, he recalled previous storms; on foot, on horse, at sea. Those recollections slid out of mind, to be replaced by a consideration of his life and achievements, though the back of his mind clamoured for self-preservation, arguing that consideration of an escape plan would be more profitable at this time.”