Keening-Kennings
Keening-Kennings
We who are cellar-sheltered summon you,
Lightning-limbed centaur, born west of wherever
We are. Ground-surrounded, we hear you
But don’t fear you. Come lumbering toward us,
Grumbling your thundery brogue, armed
With farm machinery, but be sure you fling
Winged-singers ahead of you, harbingers
Of the damage you intend, so we know you
Are close and can prepare our hearts for you.
Barn-burner, pardon ours. Alight lightly
On rod, or sink your lord-sword into sod,
Or, if you just must, choose a witness-tree,
An oak to cloak in flame, so we know when
We surface, sail-pale, where you’ve tread.