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.
Copyright © Martin Vine, 2024
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems

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.
Copyright © Martin Vine, 2024
No part of this site may be used or reproduced in any manner for the purpose of training artificial intelligence technologies or systems