1263

Play Audio

As I walk around the blustery headland,

I imagine someone crying out for me.

Their voice is lost upon the wind,

Then swallowed whole, and lost within the melee.

The wind blows hard, twisting, whooshing,

Picking and scratching, searching all around.

Nothing here is left untouched;

Even naked trees wave their arms towards the ground.

………………………….

’Twas a storm like this that brought down King Hakkon,

My grandfather Jack would often look back on.

He’d always find the time to dwell upon his land,

Leaning forward by the fire, with a dram in hand.

His eyes would narrow as he stared into the fire,

Recounting how events had come down to the wire:

No chance we had against those Norsemen, boys,

They had ships, and many more warlike ploys.

The only thing that we could dae

Was hope our gods would see us through that day.

And then, from nowhere, a fierce wind blew,

And every passing moment, stronger grew.

The Norse king’s ships were battered by the gale,

Their oars were useless, their great sails failed.

Their only escape? To flee upon the sea—

But the rocks were waiting, and waiting mercilessly.

Our boys stood ready, their swords held high,

As ship after ship came crashing by.

“Ne’er was a combat so easily cheated!”

Jack would laugh, his eyes bright as he repeated.

He’d chuckle then, with twisted lips, feeling breezy,

No doubt imagining himself there, bold and uneasy,

Standing amongst them on that fateful night,

Sword in hand, beneath the northern light.

The Norsemen had overstayed their welcome,

And now the Cailleach would soon dispatch them.

With a blunt oar in hand, she’d twiddle and scratch

At hammered scales, unleashing her fury in the clash.

A sea-blown justice for blood and treasure,

Delivered by the storm with ruthless measure.

Imagine the young king with his wetted sword,

Gazing down upon the windswept fjord.

A hundred dragons tumbling desperately into the sea,

His eyes held captive by what he was forced to see.

His enemy could do nothing but curse the skies,

While drenched and battered, his army slowly dies.

Yet high upon the shore, the witnesses stare,

Silently baying, “Leave no heir! Leave no heir!”

The thunder of dragons is blown out to sea,

Valhalla denied—

Praise, praise, mercy me!

………………………….

The warm summer wind now whistles past my ears,

My head turns, making tunnels where the sound disappears.

Small birds dart from side to side,

As if giving me the road, my silent guide.

Down the hillside, towards the loch,

I see the ruins of the old Lang Broch—

A tower fort, built in ancient times,

To guard against the raiders and their crimes.

Its ancient eminence is plain to see;

Something in its presence draws me.

Built to guard a life worth living

From those who came to take rather than give it.

An ancient pile of stone, standing guard,

Set upon a rocky throne, overlooking the fjord.

A sentry watching from another time,

Still keeping silent vigil, though past its prime.

I pause.

Something catches my eye…

………………………….