~ by Iain Hawkes

Nottingham, Sherwood, you move unseen,

Sometimes at night, sometimes under sun’s gleam.

Your motives unknown, but from what I can see,

You stand opposed to all tyranny.

You seem without coin, yet you give it out

To the poor who do need it, with food they’re without.

Word of your deeds, it spreads with your fame,

Yet the sheriff, that knave’s put a price on your name.

Your skill with a bow is second to none,

And yet to tourneys you rarely come.

The thoughts of the sheriff, what’s in his head?

I can only assume that they’re feelings of dread.

So whoever you are, whatever title you bear,

Thank you for lifting us all from despair.

Stay safe in your forest, your abode of wood,

And all the while I’ll look for the yeoman with the hood.