You wore the black cowl of a monk,
but
the pine bed was open only at the top.
It
was you, but your lips were pale
and
the makeup was so white.
Your
hands were clasped
in
contemplation or maybe prayer,
but
was there any thought
in
the cold clay destined for dust?
Was
the glass half empty or half full?
I
could not tell.
The
warriors viewed the hero’s stillness
and
chanted words by the wild flames
that
turned the night yellow with shame.
A
Geatish woman with hair bound up
sang
a dirge for the coming days
without
the man she’d known as lord.
They
had fashioned a funeral pyre
for
Beowulf the brave,
slayer
of dragons and Grendel,
hung it with helmets, shields, and armor
and
treasure from their days
when
blood gave color to the cheek
and
strength to the bones.
The
smoke curled, unfurled a soul
from
black cherrywood dropping embers
onto
the holy runic stones.
I
shall put aside my iron tools,
shall
cease carving figures out of wood,
shall
stop trying to reconcile
twenty-first
century riddles and lack of bile,
its
should or could or would.
Rather,
I shall sail wine-dark seas.
Perhaps
you live in the land
that
dips below sunset’s horizon
where
the ocean quietly rolls
into
that we which we cannot understand.
Perhaps
we shall meet, or not.
I
toast you with mead,
you,
who were in the lead
by
a handful of years
so
as to eat the bread
and
drink from cups of blood.
Brother,
where art thou?
Sailing
in the wine-dark seas.
Sailing
in the wine-dark seas.
~William Hammett
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