He awoke, smothered in sweat
Dead of night, some sticky clime
a night tethered in malignant threats.
Poison dripping from every vine.
The warrior breathes deep
the air is sickly sweet
He turns to and fro
Looking for a place to go.
His last memory is of a shattered ship
tossed against distant shores
Drinking mead before the battered trip
That left him stranded and sore.
He makes it to a riverbank, the sun at its peak.
The river churning up a burning heat
The warrior abandons his iron plates and heavy coat
Praying that Odin will lead him back to the boat.
Suddenly, a light voice streams in on the breeze
A flowered scent, umber eyes like none across the seven seas.
A maiden, skin like burnished copper gleaming.
Stood washing at the riverbank, sending him reeling.
She heard him fall
the thick splat he made in the clay, dispersing aerosol
She’d never seen a man so pale,large, or tall
Perhaps he was a god, incarnated into this cacao-haired doll.
She stood over him as he opened his eyes. She tried to greet him
But he remained mute, immobile, dim.
The maiden spattered sounds. They were the bubbling froth of an ale.
The warrior stared. The pucker of her raspberry lips was more beautiful than Freya’s
She tried again, to greet him. She sat on his mountainous chest.
His hair was in tresses, strange insignias covered his breast.
He wanted to reply in her voluptuous tongue
But all he could think of was the sun shining from her eyes.
Her hair was a sheet of pure obsidian, her oval face was young
zephyr on the wings of a butterfly.
She took him by the hand, fearless of this Nordic giant.
He followed her, eyes wide–compliant.
He didn’t speak, lest this copper skinned girl ever know
That he would cut down Yggdrasil to simply hear her say “Hello”.
(Is go Oíche Fhéil Eoin,
Ní thiocfaidh mé aniar)