Poem to Surt
by Corbie Petulengro
The clink of chipping stone,
Black stone-glass turned to razor edge,
I hear it in my dreams
And know that you send the message.
Ancestral clink of flint against steel -
Or, further back, the whir of bow on stone
Praying for smoke, or further still -
Twig spun in the desperate dance
Between chilled hands that whisper your name,
As my lips whispered your name,
Your runes, your words of power.
Ken, ken, ken, kano, kaunaz, ken,
Like the hammer on the grey-white stone,
Like the chipping of the black-glass stone.
Cweorth, cweorth, cweorth, like the whisk
Of spinning twig on log, the wisp
Of smoke that escapes, chokes the breath
That prays in gratitude, nurtures each tiny flame,
Feeds it the delicate grasses, watches it suckle them
Giving it breath with my own breath,
Coaxing, coddling, and then as it grows
From infancy to childhood in seconds
As your red babies do, then solid food -
The twigs, then sticks, then logs to gnaw.
It is the dance that saved my ancestors,
That I dare not forget. My word on it,
I will care well for your children, O Surt,
So that my own may survive.