Snow on the far heights spills over
their shoulders, drops down to feed
deep streams crossing wide moorland,
where wind-blown trees whisper, overtopping
tangles of grass, and outcrops of stone
break through bramble and barren thorn.
Easily over the pathless land
she comes, on a waning moon, clasping
a grey cloak at her white throat.
Raven sits on a branch above
shapeless stone, stropping his beak;
he and she are akin, a merry meeting.
‘Well-met, brother – whence are you come
with your beak all ****** from breaking your fast?
What word do you bring from the world of men?’
He turns his bright eye towards her:
‘Battle is joined in the world below,
from all peoples men are mustered,
enough for us all, even the eagles,
nor need we vie with the grey wolf;
the feast is spread to feed us all.
Blow up your fire, sister, boil your cauldron;
a heavy harvest will fill your hall.’
She smiles, and makes for the autumn woods
where, below the moor, the turning trees
dwindle in dusk as their bright burden
burns away.
(after Thorbjorn Hornklofi’s Lay of Harald Fairhair)
