Brocken Spectre

(Lyrics written for the band hvíldarlauss dauðr and their forthcoming album)




Rich descendant of its

Poor and stupid ancestors.

Hoard-obsessed giant,

Arms wide on its mountain.


“Oh yes, I am the light.

A rainbow shines out of my face.

Shadow-cast your little minds with

Crazed joy – keep you in your place.”


We are of dust and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


Feet fused with foundations of rock,

Too much time to roar and stare.

If its face had formed, it would have

Mouth contorted in a grimaced grin.


Delirium – you’re blind to its cloud-stride,

Trembling bones at laughter’s crack,

Shivering in spatters of cold rain.

Yet the little feeble chant comes back:


You are of mist and mountain rock

Crumbling like ash and powder,

Scattered about like stars

On pitch black.


(That poor mortal tragedy,

Necks bent, shuffling in the dark.

Overshadowed by the mountain giant,

Ever crawling through the mud.)


Poor giant, as the light dims,

This light illusion blurs and breaks –

The cloud shifts, disturbed and rolling,

Pierced through by jagged peaks.


It ends, curled up, foetal,

Imagining its mother’s arms

But falling through dispersing fog

Turning to a broken ghost.

Brocken Spectre

On the Harvest

van gogh wheat field with crows

A song for the harvest, based on an old tale of folklore… (Painting by van Gogh – Wheat Field with Crows)

In early spring, young dreamer, Silas Crow
Did so lament his status as a farmer..
Not full o’ fortune, rather full o’ woe:
When came to growing wheat, he were no charmer…

Crow was his name ’cause he was friend o’ birds.
Nah chased them off his field, at cost o’ yield.
The crows he favoured, by his very words,
His admiration truly had been sealed.

One day, while he was fighting with some weeds,
(Who seemed to laugh at him – this farming joke)
Young Silas tumbled back, scattering his seeds…
He banged his head… ’til sunset hadn’t woke.

And when his eyes did open, looking down,
There was a friendly crow who opened beak…
Unsure if t’was the injury to his crown,
Young Silas jumped as it began to speak:

“Farmer…” it started, in a raspy tone,
“Ye wish a noted harvest for the year?”
Silas did nod. “Then seeds are to be sown –
Don’t waste yer time a-sittin’ on yer rear.”

The man got to his feet and Crow did spake:
“I’ll help yer to a rich and fruitful yield…
If ye do as I say, with no mistake,
Ye’ll have the fullest bounty o’ yer field.”

And with that, Crow did ask of the young man
For half his seed to feed his birdy friends..
Silas agreed, open to any plan
That might result in any fruitful ends.

So as the year rolled onwards, Summer-bound,
The crops did flourish well, not pecked and small.
Silas came out for battle with the ground,
The ritual pulling o’ the weeds so tall…

But suddenly, alighted his friend Crow,
Who merely stood and slowly shook his head.
Young Silas stopped and leaned upon his hoe
To listen to what Crow came forth and said:

“Pull up the weeds, but leave them not to die.
Instead, replant them, bordering the field.”
Silas, he frowned, and questioned Crow: “But.. why?”
Crow laughed: “Ye’ll find a fuller crop so sealed.”

So Silas did his biddind… and come time
To reap the fruits o’ harvest for the year,
He did indeed each farmer’s yield outshine.
He gathered crops and grinned from ear to ear.

After the grand harvest celebration,
When Silas took the crown for best o’ show,
The bird flew down and by him took his station.
Silas did thank and praise that wily crow.

The crow explained: “Plants are like earthly balance…
Each brother needs his sibling to be close.
A man can have a lifetime full o’ talents,
But listen to this Crow, so well verbose…”

“Without the vicious weed, there is no flower.
Without the lengthened nights, no rest for sun.
For now, ivy takes oak within its power…
The tapestry o’ nature here is spun.”

On the Harvest


Oh moon, so creamy, face so fat,
Ye cheeks a-ripe for pinches…
Let me give ’em a little pat –
Orion’s belt grows inches…

‘Tis not so shy this happy moon,
Uncovered by the night.
And rarely does he come too soon,
To cause a heavenly fight.

And so, to heated eve’s heartbeat,
Let moon shudder with bliss…
And scatter stars across night’s sheet
Before the morning’s kiss.



Oh Egg….

Oh egg – behold ye – snug in nest,
And feathers, fluffy down.
Naively locked – so firmly pressed
In shell o’ flawless brown.

This perfect curve, infinity,
Still keeps the world outside,
Holding some divinity
Trapped fast, not time-allied.

A tiny orb of innocence
Content to sleep within…
But when to press and strive for sense
A worm may burrow in…

Whether pecked or premature
Cracked open for a feast,
That step into the light, for sure
Twice breaks this poorly beast.

The sun will melt upon a plate
Before ye mercy beg,
Despite perfection, ’tis too late…
For troubled little egg.


Oh Egg….

Black Wings

When world were young, and gods they spun

The cycles into place,

There were but one who ‘marked upon

With frown upon her face:

Should tides turn rough and strong enough,

T’would grind the stone back round…

And moon would come in place o’ sun,

And up be going down.

Like in the baking sunshine,

Salt crystals on the deck…

What might be just the gems of fools

May also break yer neck.

So watch out for the bigger birds,

‘Cause for the corpse they come.

The feathers bright into the night,

But black against the sun…

Black Wings


‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
To battle with the shady twinkling frost.
So gather you to kneel and quiver so,
Lest grasses thin and herd grows gaunt and lost.

Show they all, in shortened sleeves and looks,
To meadows come, beholden to the sun.
Their essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
And onward to the salted cradle run.

See a lass, with yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light their fires and place their maypole there.
With rising heat, ah… raise that trunk again,

And we can twist and twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
And here Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil of honeyed dew.

And he who gentle cups a warming hand,
To give heat to a long-preparing tree…
Shall see small petals, on his thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens to the bee.

Come we all to revel, fear, and lust:
‘Tis Beltane, and we hope the fates be just.