Byggvir
by Seawalker
He rolls across the field, round-bellied,
Big-footed, smile wide in his face,
Clothed in brown wrinkled like the soil
That shows when the crop is cut down,
Flour whitening his face. Ears pointed, his
Alfar blood is there, but he is gnome second-
First and foremost he belongs
To the Golden One, and serves him well.
The golden grain goes into the mill,
Between the wheelstones, and he waits
Tapping his foot, humming a tune
As the oxen turn in their endless circle.
Only once a year does he go sorrowful,
Eyes filled with tears. On the day that his master
Is cut down, blood spilling in the field,
He waits, twisting hat in hand, until the
Fair body is borne away to Nerthus’s hut,
And then gathers up the bloodstained kernels,
Holding them to his heart as he stumbles away.
He weeps as he mills them, tears wet circles
In the flour at his feet. The rosy powder is
Baked into cakes, and who knows what rites
That bread is devoured in? I do not ask.
Perhaps they grace the Earth-goddess’s table,
Perhaps choked down by the mourning singers,
Or broken again and buried in the field.
The faithful heart gives freely of its yield,
The blood, the stone, the miller’s bargain sealed.
Artwork by Thorskegga Thorn. She writes, "Bygvir is one of the two servants of Frey; his name means barley. The ale bowl, the yarrow, the hops, all refer to the art of brewing. Early brewers stirred the ale with a broom and left the broom out in the air for natural yeast to form. The broom above a door became the mark of a brewer and one of England's earliest pub signs."