‘Rise up, O Lord. May thy enemies be

scattered

and those who hate thee be driven from

thy face.’

(Inscription found on a fragmented strip

of gold)

The independent valuation came in at

£3,285,000

That high-pitched wail

kicks in, heralds pay-dirt.

The shroud of soil

removed, it surfaces,

loud as a smile above

an open grave;

furrows of gold,

a perfectly-preserved

stillbirth, exposed,

keening and buttery,

just as interred. The field’s

been ploughed way back

where this was found,

our Dark Age past exhumed,

torn from the dead.

Was it rough politics,

a secret stash? The cross

was mangled; whiff

of sacrilege, bad blood,

knight sacrifice,

crude tit for tat;

ill fortune best left in

the ground beneath

the dowser’s measured feet?

He cried for help.

Light danced before his eyes

in shovel-loads.

Someone was listening.