Revolution was born in the rolling fields of France.
The turning was here, with the surf in the vineyard.
The twittering of swallows in thatched eves,
The chattering of famished farmers in smokey inns,
The clinking of pottery tankards to rouse blood,
Fists flying in bluster after sinking a few more.
The daylight charging down the shutters
To prod bed-bound stragglers in quivering guts.
The explosion of fizzing vomit across the dusty field
To top off the pains of a night on the village.
The haze floating above the crops and above the heads
Of the staggering host, plotting and stewing
New plans of change to put to bed that injustice.
In the rollings fields of France, revolution is born.
John Fastolf, English landowner and soldier, model for Shakespeare’s Sir John Falstaff, died today in 1459.
Guido Fawkes was discovered in the vaults of the Palace of Westminster, guarding the barrels of gunpowder which would have destroyed Parliament and assassinated King James I, on this day in 1605, a day now celebrated in England as Bonfire night.
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