Son of Esargthe axe-thrower, smelting and pin-lining coastswith bronze whirls, smoothed by Macha’s shawl.Forger of tools, lately found half-sunk in peatin a depthless bog, with his elbow crooked upward. The gasespreserved his jacket, the raised sinewon his small finger, and the blazoned buckle he himself fashioned.Blood-guzzling brother,in your black and swollen hands were held and formedthe precious things of our people—silver arms, jeweled stones,shields which took as their sigilsthe names of longer-dead folk, who saw these fensand montane cliffs with new eyes in the fog. Green and white,you decked yourself in imitation of the landscape, spangledred as the first tang of human blood spoiled.We are now half as young as you were then,and can only see a vague prophecy in the curves of your embellished helmet.History is the massive magnetabove us, riding like fertile Gavlen over the brawn brewer.
Photo by Tim Cooper on Unsplash