My heart and this kingdom–hard ground
rain breaks itself against.
If I stood by the river and fed it all my wealth
would a god come forth and give me reason?
What is the love of a girlchild?
A stubborn heart, a soft voice, and no sword.
I am the plow broken, iron dulled and rusted
I am become the shattered season.
I have drunk the mistletoe-wine. I have no heir.
No fruit have I raised up on the land
beyond the one sweetling girl.
Beyond my own treason.
I have rooted here too long.
My line has choked the ground, roots entwining,
serpents strangling themselves brazen.
Craven in storm. Graven on stones.
Rune-tree, show me where to gouge,
where to plant a raven heart, ripping apart
ground and sky to make my howl-haven,
where is my song, my child, my land, my heaven?
* Often birds’ droppings contain rowan seeds, and if such droppings land in a fork or hole where old leaves have accumulated on a larger tree, such as an oak or a maple, they may result in a rowan growing as an epiphyte on the larger tree. Such a rowan is called a “flying rowan” and was thought of as especially potent.
