Sliced sons break muddy ground. A Sunday Sun
Sees the bloody bones, and weeps.
This battle boils the blood of God. Bludgeoned boys
Are sown like seeds. Cracks of bone remain hanging;
In the pale air, ravens caw and coo.
Gnashing maws and drying sores. It makes the skin crawl.
Fog folds the dead. Filling the bleating hearts with dread.
Because it is the carrion call, the sign of an incoming storm.
Beowulf. Broad grin like brandished sword he comes!
A lictus leer— death! Cutting the strings of men.
‘Brenne and sle!’—Slay and burn!
The chopping chant of this mad ‘man’,
Who cuts the fog like Oswald the Owl; And Braemar the Brave;
Corpus the Christian; These are just names added by The Tallyman.
Bezerker. Ravager of man, woman and child.
Beowulf never was the steely slayer from the tales of soothsayers.
He was the people’s Grendel: Slayer of bigger heroes than this monstrous in-human man.
© Thomas Gallimore Barker