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To be within the mind,
of a Vikingr let loose,
on seemly pleasant,
green and sacred shores,
smelling the allotted,
pillars of salt,
on fastly running,
back-looking gusts,
remembering a spouse’,
face in your lowly brooch,
ahead are vicious skies,
that are painted war,
you vanquish gut-lain,
fears and assaults,
you devour anxieties,
like herring-ed crusts.

Those seemly pleasant,
pastures are now,
where your long boat,
wrecked and sparked,
yet you still walk within,
weathered place names,
that the modern folk,
do often mispronounce,
your -fords and -dales,
are as common as the cow,
and Thor’s thundered,
drum is still hearkened,
though your longboat,
is no longer lit aflame,
the ash can still be tasted,
in scathing, soiled mounds.

A ransack of memories,
like a club to legs,
makes deadened,
bereft and forgetful,
staggering gaits,
and awful anger afoot,
for histories lost,
drowned and capitulated,
a new beginning takes,
sagas of broken eggs,
and lega-seas unfound,
are always regretful,
so when you swim,
in the footsteps of King Cnut,
beware of the billowed,
tides, seiðr, fated.

© poormansdreams

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