Felixstowe
Running over heath and hillock.
In a land of earth piled up by ancient Britons
forts against invading wave,
these berms built up in anticipation of another Germanic surge
by men I'd call grandfather,
their storm more modern fire than ancient steel.
The land this year became--
except for asphalt crackle--
a kingdom united in a cover of hoar.
I stand at the edge of land and sea,
and in eye there is no anchor to time:
Angle and Dane looked on the same over centuries,
the nameless over eon.
Raindrops obscure the cold-tears,
the curls on Mannanan’s beard at seven feet
slap like cannonshot.
The clouds mountains of grey, and the sun slits through
with scramasax of wind.
The face of the ancient god appears, third eye blazing above the two.
I slow to face that face,
facing the swan's road to ancestor's graves.
On a sudden heart slows and hungry breath slacks
and a question flares like a fire:
How have I done?
I speak,
a declarative inviting inspection
not a question begging guidance:
the gods want to hear us state, not plead.
Our prayer lies in what we question.
Our judgement is our psalm.
Expecting no answer,
I leave my footprints on these sands
for likely the last time,
running wave’s edge
looking for amber for a lover.
In a land of earth piled up by ancient Britons
forts against invading wave,
these berms built up in anticipation of another Germanic surge
by men I'd call grandfather,
their storm more modern fire than ancient steel.
The land this year became--
except for asphalt crackle--
a kingdom united in a cover of hoar.
I stand at the edge of land and sea,
and in eye there is no anchor to time:
Angle and Dane looked on the same over centuries,
the nameless over eon.
Raindrops obscure the cold-tears,
the curls on Mannanan’s beard at seven feet
slap like cannonshot.
The clouds mountains of grey, and the sun slits through
with scramasax of wind.
The face of the ancient god appears, third eye blazing above the two.
I slow to face that face,
facing the swan's road to ancestor's graves.
On a sudden heart slows and hungry breath slacks
and a question flares like a fire:
How have I done?
I speak,
a declarative inviting inspection
not a question begging guidance:
the gods want to hear us state, not plead.
Our prayer lies in what we question.
Our judgement is our psalm.
Expecting no answer,
I leave my footprints on these sands
for likely the last time,
running wave’s edge
looking for amber for a lover.