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       ~ 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 Iđunn’s
and just as sweet.                 Frođi 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.
Seiđr-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.

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