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A Touch from the Web
A cold wind blows, oŽer Yewdale green
Through sky so blue, neath Sunna's gold
Past mountains tall, and through the Tree
A rippling breath, upon the Well
As well it should, for all are there
Within Orlay, and Tribal Wyrd
And as Norns weave, beside the spring
Awash in Deed, no worth words fail
And as our words, build into Lore
The layers sink, into that pool
Where murmurs lie, beyond the ear
But faintly heard, and no less True
And true in heart, the traveled one
Who then returns, to Home and Hearth
And finds therein, all which is good
His Kin, his Kith, his Gods, his Art
And in this art, lay riddles deep
Of Thought and Dream, and far beyond
And answers too, they come awing
Like dancing leaves, upon the wind.
© Stefn Ullarsson Piparskeggr, 22 Horning 1001 Vinland Reckoning
Catamount Grange Hearth . Poetry books by Pipaskeggr at Cafepress.com
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