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The ravens are on the wing!
My scramasax is red (stained with the blood of many Mercian warriors), The ravens are on the wing, By Offa`s decree I am an outlaw, Branded wolfshead by my own king. (The orm-garth awaits me, darkly astir with ophidian malice...) The ravens are on the wing! Ash for our spear-hafts, Yew for our bow-staves, Oak for our deck planks, Oak and elder our shields. Hail, o` great liege of the ancient woods, ruler of the deepest forest... you, who were reigning o`er your time-veiled kingdom centuries before the arrogant men who proclaim themselves kings of this island ever supped of life`s bitter-sweet draught... I give you my hail, I give you my blood, I give you my life, O` sylvan liege. My life bleeds forth unto the earth (from many deep and dire wounds), To slake your roots, great old king... (as I rest my battle-ravaged body against thee.) The ravens are on the wing! Ten leagues ride on lathered steed, Gold in hand to a sword-for-hire, A blood-eagle carved by Saxon steel, And two score slain earns royal ire. Gwynned lies two days westwards, Still further south, the weregeld calls. Mayhap with All-Father Woden`s favour, My deeds may yet inspire the skalds. Litha`s moon gleams high o`er the tallest oak, Ancient king in this sylvan court of elm, ash and yew, The wood-spirits watch from gnarled bough and bole, As I pull two Mercian shafts from my bloodied thews. The ravens are on the wing! I give you my hail, I give you my blood, I give you my life, O` sylvan liege. Beneath the oak, I rest, bone weary, Thirsting for a horn of ale or jug of mead, And yet how could a heathen man wish for any more, Than the healing balms of English trees? The ravens are on the wing!
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