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~ By Courtesy of Others ~

 

The Gift

In the war-torn valley
I do wait,
the one-eyed god's mead
is hard to taste.
My hand wavers,
my mind is stone,
Tyr's love do I use
in this voyage of doves.

The moons of the wielder
of blades' face
look to one day only,
The fortnight when all
will be written in stone,
the Wanderer's servant
and the linden tree
bury their feet.

The god of spears
travels from far away lands,
to make a smart match
from the forest of vines.
His shield will not falter
keeping her dry,
the tree's sea is hers
as well as its fruit.

The Thunderer will ride,
the Spitter of mead smiles,
hand in hand,
two will be one.
Both will reap
the rewards of the dripper,
the arm's fire will rest
on the spears of the hands.

The hall of kings
will be their home,
Thor's mother their bed
for the seeds they sow.
All Midgard will envy
the life they share,
together they will have
no need or care.

Blennerhassette

- License: This poem may be freely distributed, provided
it remains unchanged, including copyright notice and this License -

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