Hatched from the Egg, he was hungry always;
that cosmic hailstone crafted such wyrd.
In size he surged, consuming carrion:
strong and stately, he stood at last.
He was sleek and fierce, but unsatisfied.
That fleshy fodder had fulfilled its end,
but such food no longer could feed his soul.
His keen cold eyes, they craved new vistas,
and his heart sought out the holy mysteries.
To the Cave he went, that court of darkness
and Lunar land of limitless night,
seeking its treasures for his soul’s triumph.
He came at last to cauldrons three
filled with the ferment of fathomless Spirit.
He drank down that Mead and from dreams awoke
to soul’s satisfaction and Solar gnosis.
A seed of Self he saw within,
and now at last he knew himself
as the eagle he was. Then up he flew,
to the heights he soared and their healthful freedom;
the sun he sought in Ascent and joy.
With gnosis now of these new vistas,
he poured out poetry in a powerful torrent,
a sparkling stream of Spirit’s essence.
He remembered the land and meant to return,
but gray and grim the ground realms seemed;
one tear he shed for that world he’d lost,
though aid he’d offer to the others down there
by decanting mead to the curious ones
who sought the Sky. Ere soaring again
(above-aiming to the abode of Spirit),
on the taller trees for a time he’d rest,
and among the majesty of the mountain peaks.
Truly this happens, time and again:
the birth and rebirth — a bittersweet tale —
of a Skaldic Eagle in the Sky above.
Copyright © 2017 Eirik Westcoat.
All rights reserved.