~ By Courtesy of Others ~
A Howe-Dweller’s Dream
The rain falls
upon my Mound.
The grass that feeds upon my ashes
will be green
and fat the sheep that eat it.
I drink their blood at Winter-Blót.
The rain falls.
Dew beads the grass.
Snow covers me
and the lichen on my Runestone.
Old and gnarled the tree they
planted on my barrow.
Yet still its apples
are gold as Išunn’s
and just as sweet.
Froši gave free-handedly
and I like Ing give still. Long-dead am I.
Yet part of me
remains here still
and dreams of the Me that dreams in Alfheim.
Seers sleep upon my stone and hear my whispers.
Do they dream me?
Or I dream them?
Perhaps we dream each other. Long-dead am I.
She who sleeps here tonight her grandmother
was but a girl
when they lit my litch-fire. I shall greet
her
with the nickname
Granny gave her.
That will get
her going.
My last hurrah
will leave a lesson
that lingers long.
This “I” that remains
begins its trek toward the rest.
Kin I’m coming whole at last.
They raise beside me
another Mound.
Seišr-Sister slumbers there tomorrow.
She shall whisper
in my stead.
Thank you Thorbjorg this
task will then be yours.
My work is well done. I walk the
Way.
Soon this shall be
just another hillock.
Long-dead am I.
High time I head hence.
© Jordsvin
Jordsvin“s
Norse Heathen Pages
Image: Bryn Celli Ddu Chambered Cairn
in Wales. Copyright Martin J Powell 2001-5, used by permission from his Aenigmatis
Photo Gallery.