Galðraháttr

Randver Brotamathr
fallen in Fall Crown Tourney, A.S. XLII

(galðraháttr)

Riding the sunset Swift from her isles,
Fury to howl back the fold:
Master of currents Cleaves them in purpose,
Crowning the waves with his will,
Grinding the stalwarts to ground.

Breath of the squall Shatters the dragon,
Scatters its bones to the sea;
Soft through the wreckage Weaves the survivor,
Gathering threads of the gale,
Leading the snarl to land.

Closet the builders Brisk in their mead-halls,
Barring the hail from their home;
Leaves in their canopy Cover the horned one,
Restless an eye to the rain;
Vigils to weather the wind.

Where came this power? Whisper his kinsmen,
Filling his wool-wings with fervor?
Joy at the contest Call of the throne:
Speak of the star that he followed,
Welcoming flame to the fray . . .

Speak of her face Flush with her laughter,
Racing the spray to the strand:
Fruit of the sea-bark Slipped from its holdings,
Dancing her play through the din,
Smiling, the eyes of the storm.

— Lord Will Schuyler the Younger

... is a 15th century Englishman of uncertain destination: apprenticed to the wit of arithmetic, he still at times endeavors to

court the muse.

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