Running from Surt

We travelled North
away from breathless heat
and blood red rock that pours out of the earth,

Across great plains, past mountains,
we picked out way through forests
passing by silver streams, always our backs toward the heat

into the sweet white world
until the pitiless ache of hard dark cold
consumed our infants and our sick and turned us back.

We settled here,
where water was plentiful,
where mountains breathe out mist, not choking fire

and here we stayed,
here where the gentle Vanir rule
where the good light is by but does not burn

here where the ice and fire
sway gently to and fro, like waves
or tide, and where the mist flows from the cattle’s breath

where innocence is all,
and good is in the rocks and streams and
field and food and friends and family

and here we stay
until the final fire comes to us from the South..





(c) Richard Lawson