The Sacrifice

A PACT is forged at Mimir's well,

The Wind-God hangs in living Hel;

For runes to meet that one-eyed glare

His cries of pain must fill the air.

Not by word or deathly curse

And neither there arranged in verse,

But taking flight as breeze and gale

To aid the distant Viking sail.

* * *

In forests deep 'mid croak and growl,

Where ravens hop and wolves do prowl;

Some hidden force now darkly seethes

And casts its breath on scattered leaves.

© Troy Southgate