Forgotten Ground Regained
Journey to the West
From the Old Norse Vestrfaravisur
Ship of speech, word-wave,
sails westward, and I, speaking,
hold hard to wind's unfolding
across air's parchment, writing.
Lord and lackeys murmur and mill
and I, outside, stoop and supplicate,
seek king's councillors, crave
access and audience, a prince who pays
for tongue's treasure, mind's unfolding,
ichly wrapped in iron rings.
Earl's of earth's serpent spend
safety, scorn stability, senses
stripped; proud proclaimers, power-drunk,
cast kings' cares to the wind's casket.
let wariors wait hard on heath;
hope under heaven favors flight.
Broad battles rage bitter,
brave lords drain heart's mead,
unstinting drink the wine of ravens,
speak soft words, plough hard rows.
Mine is the gift of gold, speaking
strong lines, yours is steel,
a sharp sword, a worthy weapon.
A wise warrior weighs God's words.
Wind's servant, across the shifting hills,
I return, richer in words and welcomes,
giving gifts undiminished, gaining
grace of place, proud amongst peers.
Originally published in New Crops from Old Fields: Eight Medievalist Poets, ed. Oz Hardwick, Stairwell Press, 2015
Copyright © Oz Hardwick, 2015
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