I returned to a long strand,



the hammered curve of a bay,



and found only the secular



powers of the Atlantic thundering.







I faced the unmagical



invitations of Iceland,



the pathetic colonies



of Greenland, and suddenly







those fabulous raiders,



those lying in Orkney and Dublin



measured against



their long swords rusting,







those in the solid



belly of stone ships,



those hacked and glinting



in the gravel of thawed streams







were ocean-deafened voices



warning me, lifted again



in violence and epiphany.



The longship’s swimming tongue







was buoyant with hindsight—



it said Thor’s hammer swung



to geography and trade,



thick-witted couplings and revenges,







the hatreds and behind-backs



of the althing, lies and women,



exhaustions nominated peace,



memory incubating the spilled blood.







It said, ‘Lie down



in the word-hoard, burrow



the coil and gleam



of your furrowed brain.







Compose in darkness.



Expect aurora borealis



in the long foray



but no cascade of light.







Keep your eye clear



as the bleb of the icicle,



trust the feel of what nubbed treasure



your hands have known.’





