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A Season Of Growth: The Swan Road

Jarl (Old English eorl Earl) ‘a man of noble birth’; hence used as the title of hereditary Norse and Danish chieftains; later, of the royal liege-man next in rank to the king whom they followed. An old Norse and Danish chieftain or under-king.

Remember chill child channelling infamous ice,
listening intently as if awaiting what;
among helm heights of wind blown crags?
Straining to catch each Wodan word, dripping;
dripping slowly, from thrive thawing ice.
Grim grain weathered wheat waiting;
for birth bright born sun warmth water.
Hopelessly longing for season of growth
to burst forth heralded by ye breath of spring.

Jarl lifts face before wenian leave taking wind
to hail heavens these heraldic words Jarl cries.
“Mine ancestors have fought bleed died;
under eal earth’s parched foreign skies. eal A.S. all
Froth looting alien plain; raid memory;
was locked in all descendant brains.
Awaiting chill coming ravenous rains;
for raid warriors who draft row survived,
with potent power staining scarlet bled skies.
For mine blood is bile blood; warming warriors;
bile blood river tide flows in mine veins; unlike
mildew blood; sheaf shed in Anglo-Saxon heirs.
Odour oozing mortality hangs in mist breath air;
from sterile peace to fertile revenge plough strife.
Only death; grants release from slave; thrall life.
Chieftain boiling blood burning; warrior skald king; skald Old Norse poet
left furrows littered within earth locked Danegeld.
Guarded within sacred sealed longship barrows.
By ye will of Nordic Gods we build we fight
by norther stars Dragon longships sail err night.”

Then Jarl turned in one swift movement; back
to ye ships which rode stone anchors lightly, waiting;
to fly with wind while riding roaring oceanic waves.
Back to ye gathering place where assembled each crew.
Jarl’s eyes were as eager as any raw blood lust youth;
yet as fierce as cornered wolf held at pierce point bay.
Like ye beautiful eyes of ye battle trained wolfhound;
which stood ever ready upon shield blade guard side.
Locks which fell, to muscled shoulders, were still golden;
as was wolf-beard, yet mesmeric face, was weathered stern.
When he laughed, it was like ye soaring, ghoul haunting;
cry of gulls on bewitched wing, guarding territory seashore.
Each wrist was rank, covered guarded, by a golden bracelet;
a handwidth wide, at his throat bindan, a band of wrought gold.
On scourge sword arm, Jarl wore famed bracelet, ye great red
dragon; which gleamed transient light, cast in feeble sunlight;
upon ye metallic mating, marking tribute, copper married gold.
Crafted by Norse master craftsman, an artisan, without equal.
Chain-mail dragon scaled body, life merge weaven, cunningly coiled;
about ye iron muscle of Jarl’s, blade thrust bite, death blood arm.

Jarl now stood before raid gathered crews to speak.
His hands raw boned strong; like ye fist of iron; he ruled with.
Beneath ye woolen tunic; ye chain linked shirt; ye scars fell.
Always about same places; where enemy blade; opening lay.
As viking strode furiously; to be first; within hunted battle foe.
For warriors who go to battle; many raid seasons; following.
Summer succeeding summer; bore ye bite; of enemy blade.
Eagle eyes with wisdom; cold indifference; to pain or spirits;
scanned ye viking; with glacial weighing; ice crevice measure;
of all weakness encountered; which set teeth; of teething on edge.
Suffering within himself; ritual warrior berserks; left him unmoved.

“In ye beauty of bare swan road fiords; ye Gods;
have left us ravenous; we hunger; month winter.
In ye fat; warm lamb lands; of Christ On Ye Cross;
is much meat; slaughter sport; had with sword game.
Always ye unknown is before us! It will ever be so!
Waits to swallow sheep; not equal to be blood wader;
men. Who could not face; what men; have ever sought.
Now is ye time; for dragon ships; to sail swan road seas.
Like ye wolf winter’s teeth; has been hard; on barren bones.
Like ye wolf winter’s bite; has left us savage; starve lean.
Like ye wolf we hunt; alone in dragon; row wolf pack;
we ravish; rich green river feed; plunder pastures.
For us it is everything; or nothing; ever must it be so!
For are we not hungry; hungry; like ye winter wolves?
Else to summer; on homebound, farm crop labour shores;
we grow weak next winter; when food, be season short.
Lacking rich lands; fertile loam soils; for crops or beast;
we must raid fight; for number to increase; to survive.
Not even before ye eye; of ye fierce rage; north sea storm;
or ye ocean’s; own deep hunger; can our own be calm.”

total 80 lines to be continued...

this Viking Epic poem, had the 1st to 5th stanzas posted by 7.10.2010.

poem by Terence George Craddock
Added by Poetry Lover
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