Thursday, 24 November 2011

Widsith

I cannot range the European plain
   Nor bear an armring from the distant courts;
I cannot sing the cruelty and pain
   Nor drunken warriors collapsed like noughts.

The muddy tracks are now all autobahns,
   The woods rush past and do not crouch in threat;
The king lists are ignored like someone’s yarns,
   The future of the tribe a misplaced bet.

But in my mind this fraying autumn night
   I hear the steady fall and lift of oars;
I face the east and journey as I write –
   Wide traveller, en route to Danube’s shores.

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© February 1980