Forgotten Ground Regained

Blodmonath

Sparkling swathes, sweat of Frost-Giants,grip this green wood ‧ in grim embrace.I hug my cloak, should cleave the posts,repair the shed -- pig herd’s abode --but sun breaks through ‧ to my beech wood glade.Allfather's daughter ‧ in dim distresswith sorrow greets ‧ for grisly wyrdthe blow that slew ‧ the bleeding god.Now the weald is dead, dead as Bealdaeg,our mast-rooters ‧ with the moon departed,slaughtered godlike, stored for winter.My thoughts follow swine ‧ southwards to Downsfrom where whispers warmly ‧ Woden’s light breath,soughing minstrel, murmurs futures.My ranged horizon ‧ ripples alive:promise of music, mead and feasting;rites of Yule-tide, raising the boar’s head --our manor merry, massed with kin-folk.Will I be present, pressed for stories,lays of old lands ‧ lost over ship’s path?My self exile -- in stubborn mood,in the fire of feuds -- just melts like frost.I start off sunward, seax blade hefted,willpower risen ‧ to rive more than wood.
Editor's Note: Blodmonath ("Blood-Month", roughly November) was the season when Old Englsh farmers would slaughter and cure lvestock they did not intend to keep alve durng the winter.
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