Skald
To the hollow beat of a droning drum
Or alongside the rain clear strings of a harp,
A single, proud voice sounds
Spreading tales of renown
As fires die low and men ease warlike limbs.
Fingers and palms make accompaniment
And words weave a noble tapestry.
Firelight traces a golden thread to caress
The singer's throat and moistened lips
As dancing fingers become brands
Of racing ruddy hue
And pale-haired heads move with each
Vibrating note of voice and instrument
As threaded crests on painted waves
Ride with the rhythmic swells.
The hounds lie still at their masters' feet
Or watch the fire lit strains of sound
As drink is forgotten and deeds recalled,
Old battles and heroes brought back.
Halls of Valhalla,
Tinged red with glory,
Unfold in words of silver skill
Under the twisting roof of gleaming boughs,
Yggdrassil, the World Tree,
Canopy of the gods,
Roots of the earth,
Gateway of the immortal,
Spectrum of forces.
From divine beak fell
The nectar of lasting strains
Of epic, weaving sound.
Silver ribs of branching horns
Drip down soothing, northern rain
To feed the Midgard clan.
Each string he strokes
Sounds the Æsir breath,
Hunting horns of wind and rain
Herald Odin's immortal chase.