Forgotten Ground Regained
Place of Slaughter
Warmth-Giver seethed -- her shine fermented --the frenzy of war-play ‧ now frozen by sunset.Day, defeated, flees; dusk’s twilight falls,the clashing of edges ‧ ebbs to a whisperreplaced by wailing -- the wounded dying.This evening’s dew ‧ dries on the frost-field,freezing the bloody ‧ blade’s red teardrops.Chaos in carnage ‧ coursed from fighting:forces fragmented, fleeing and clashing --bounds of war-bands ‧ broken asunder --land-folk’s leader ‧ left on the dark ground.Shouted orders ‧ each other interrupt;confused and dazed, I flounder in gloom.My steps retreat, I stumble backwards, trip over slain ‧ who served their lordbetter than myself. With broken teethI trickle mouth-blood, a taste to matchthe smell of slaughter -- a stench for wælcyrige. Sweat-slippery, shield-grip chafing,I clutch the rough cloak ‧ of the comrade in front. Our ragged remnant ‧ reels in retiring,shies from skirmish ‧ and shouts to our left.We lurch through brambles -- looters dead ahead;working piecemeal, they plunder soul-shieldssplit by sharp points, stealing ornamentsand failed weapons ‧ as worthless to ownersnow as in the need ‧ of noon-tide attack.We turn towards them, wanting of knowledge,eyes straining ‧ in evening greyness.Are they foe or friend? We find out as we close -- strangled shouting -- they start in guilt.Not fyrd brothers these, but brigand pirates.Our perished legs goaded -- power to charging --[We] catch them half set, hack them death-wise,but can’t wash the wounds ‧ of witnessing our loss:our folk leader felled ‧ mid fractured shield wall,
this dying day.
This poem first appeared in The Dark Path
Copyright © Martin Vine, 201?
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