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Ingvi
Frey
Frithful king,
Springing up in the East, swinging slowly
westward,
Long is His
stride,
stepping over Earth's edge,
His angled sheath-strap strung with
stars
Under His blackest cloak clasped with
tungols
A glittering
byrnie
gleams on His breast,
A brave sight,
He
high in the night-cold sky;
In Spring
beneath
the waves He
dives,
The light of
love
that outlasts dying,
Cradled in the soft bosom of the bearing Earth,
Falling as
She
unfolds to the Sun
His sinking
sets
seeds
sprouting
Going-under
He
gives strength,
Though strangled and sunk, to Springtide's life
And His
homecoming
is at Harvest,
When all that was sown is
sere and
ripe
And pronged stags spar
seeking mates;
Strange with
lust,
unaware stalking men
Single them
out
with strung bows;
The Lord and His hounds hunting and
hunted, so
Though a mighty warrior and weal's
warder
He at
doom
must deal blows
With a deer's
tine
having traded His sword
For
Gerd's
glad fruitfulness.
6-21-98
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