Brocken Spectre

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

 

brocken-spectre

 

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 ‘is status as a farmer..
Nah full o’ fortune, rather full o’ woe:
When came ta growin’ wheat, ‘e were nah charmer…

Crow was ‘is name ’cause ‘e was friend o’ birds.
Nah chased ’em off ‘is field, at cost o’ yield.
The crows ‘e favoured, by ‘is very words,
‘is admiration truly ‘ad been sealed.

One day, while ‘e was fightin’ wi’ some weeds,
(Who seemed to laugh at ‘im – this farmin’ joke)
Young Silas tumbled back, scatterin’ ‘is seeds…
‘e banged ‘is ‘ead… ’til sunset nah awoke.

An’ when ‘is eyes did open, lookin’ down,
There was a friendly crow who opened beak…
Unsure if t’was the injury to ‘is crown,
Young Silas jumped as it began ta 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 ‘is feet an’ Crow did spake:
“I’ll ‘elp yer to a rich an’ fruitful yield…
If ye do as I say, wi’ nah mistake,
Yer’ll ‘ave the fullest bounty o’ yer field.”

And with that, Crow did ask of the young man
For half ‘is seed ta feed ‘is 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, nah pecked an’ small.
Silas came out for battle wi’ the ground,
The ritual pullin’ o’ the weeds so tall…

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

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

So Silas did ‘is biddin’… an’ come time
Ta reap the fruits o’ harvest fer the year,
‘E did indeed each farmer’s yield outshine.
‘E gathered crops an’ grinned from ear to ear.

After the grand harvest celebration,
When Silas took the crown fer best o’ show,
The bird flew down an’ by ‘im took ‘is station.
Silas did thank an’ praise that wily crow.

The crow explained: “Plants are like earthly balance…
Each brother needs ‘is siblin’ 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 be spun.”

On the Harvest

Moon

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 nah so shy this happy moon,

Uncovered by the night.

And rarely does ‘e come too soon,

Ta cause a heavenly fight.
 

And so, to heated eve’s heartbeat,

Let moon shudder wi’ bliss…

And scatter stars across night’s sheet

Before the mornin’s kiss.

full-moon-in-night-sky-over-water

Moon

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,
A-holdin’ some divinity
Trapped fast, nah time allied.
 
A tiny orb of innocence
Content ta sleep within…
But when ta press an’ strive for sense
A worm may burrow in…
 
Whether pecked or premature
Cracked open for a feast,
That step into the light, fer 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.

bird_egg

Oh Egg….

Black Wings

When world were young, and gods they spun

The cycles into place,

There were but one who ‘marked upon

Wi’ 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 bakin’ sunshine,

Wi’ salt crystals on the deck…

What might be just the gems of fools

May also break yer neck.

So watch ye fer the bigger birds,

‘Cause fer the corpse they come.

The feathers bright into the night,

But black against the sun…

Black Wings

Beltane

‘Tis Beltane, where the boastful sun does go
ta battle wi’ the shady twinklin’ frost.
So gather ye ta kneel an’ quiver so,
Lest grasses thin an’ herd grows gaunt an’ lost.

Show they all, in shortened sleeves an’ looks,
Ta meadows come, beholden ta the sun.
They’s essence bulges out as tiny brooks,
An’ onward ta the salted cradle run.

See a lass, wi’ yellow flowered hair –
She will draw like waxing sun the men,
To light they’s fires an’ place they’s maypole there.
With risin’ heat, ah… raise that trunk again,

And we can twist an’ twirl our ribbon dance.
A few sips of a sweetened mushroom brew,
An’ ‘ere Queen Passion reigns our fiery prance…
Protected by a veil o’ honeyed dew.

And he who gentle cups a warmin’ hand,
To give heat to a long-preparin’ tree…
Shall see small petals, on ‘is thumb unfanned…
The fragrant blossom opens ta the bee.

Come we all ta revel, fear, an’ lust:
‘Tis Beltane, an’ we hopes the fates be just.

Beltane