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Ragnarok
We wait beneath sullen and oppressive skies.
The last birds are leaving,
flying swift upon invisible thermals,
searing away, high from the southwest.
Shaken are the trees, their weakest leaves falling
shocked at storm-wrack's calling;
calling them home to die wasted
upon cool and lush grasses.
Heavy and warm are the raindrops,
tasting like blood upon our parched lips;
splashing, laughing insanely
in rivulets down to far distant seas.
Thunder beats upon Valhalla's door,
lightning flares upon weaponry.
Will my soul fly there swift this day,
should I fall before the enemy?
© Alan Hodgson