by Robin A Spicer
Friday, July 04, 2003
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The Saga of a storm at sea.
He lay upon the sunlit beach,
Waves gently rocked him back and forth.
Hand reaching out, as if to reach,
A way to drag him up the shore
Around him driftwood scattered there
Crushed and splintered by the sea.
Unseeing eyes, they seemed to stare
At remnants of what he used to be.
No memory of the storm last night,
The waves had crashed across the deck.
The Gods had raged, Thor’s lightning bright
Had caught the mast of that tiny speck.
With a mighty roar He’d drawn his sword
And raised it to the blackened sky.
Challenged the gods, his strength restored,
West wind answered with a mournful cry.
His crew was filled with Viking Zeal,
As against the waves they went to war.
Across their heads the thunder peeled,
The Longship was pointed to the shore.
They’d ride the waves down to the shore,
A big one caught them across the beam,
Rolled them over, the crew were no more
His ears were filled with the drowning scream.
Tied to mast, t’would pull him down.
He tried to cut the binding rope.
If he failed he knew that he would drown
Sink to the bottom without a hope.
Splintered decking struck his head,
As he cut the masthead from his back
Crashing waves filled him with dread
Last thing he saw was the lightning crack.
The sun rose higher, seagulls screeched,
As they hovered over his lifeless form.
They did not care how his end was reached,
To them he was flotsam of the storm.
The sunlight glinted from the sand
The seagulls wheeled with one accord.
There clutched tightly in his hand,
Was the shining blade of his mighty sword.
Odin looked down and saw him there,
Saw that he’d died with sword in hand
Announced to Valhalla this man would share
The finest there is in Summerland.
He sits within the mighty halls
Of Asggard, drinking the finest meads.
His sword and shield adorn the walls.
Remembers with pride his greatest deeds
Robin A Spicer © 2003-07-05