Wycliffe’s words and Langland’s gave the Englisc
back their tongue. Manor french and church latin,
cut-off in the throat, battening behind
the buttresses of keeps and cathedrals,
parsing and declining. Johon Schepe
proclaims his hedgerow gospel, singing
from the furze like a yellowhammer: 
Johan the Mullere hath ygrounde smal, smal, smal. 
The Kynges sone of hevene schal pay for al.
Be war or ye be wo; Knoweth your freend
fro your foo. Haveth ynow, and seith ‘Hoo!’  
There were no lords in Eden’s commune. 
Scythes sharpened on whetstones, gente non sancta. 
War will follow the Word.