A Tale From the Deep Woods

The ravens are on the wing!

My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors)
The ravens are on the wing
By Offa's decree I am an outlaw
Branded wolfshead by my own king
(The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...)

The ravens are on the wing!

Ash for our spear-hafts
Yew for our bow-staves
Oak for our deck planks
Oak and elder our shields.

Hail, o' great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest...
you, who were reigning o'er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the
arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of
life's bitter-sweet draught...

I give you my hail
I give you my blood
I give you my life
O' sylvan liege.

My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds)
To slake your roots, great old king... (As I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.)

The ravens are on the wing!

Ten leagues ride on lathered steed
Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire
A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel
And two score slain earns royal ire.

Gwynned lies two days westwards
Still further south, the weregeld calls
Mayhap with All-Father Woden's favour
My deeds may yet inspire the skalds.

Litha's moon gleams high o'er the tallest oak
Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew
The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole
As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews.

The ravens are on the wing!

I give you my hail
I give you my blood
I give you my life
O' sylvan liege.

Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary
Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead
And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more
Than the healing balms of English trees?

The ravens are on the wing!