The Viking crouched once, <br />a red wish in shadow as the clean light failed, <br />foot fierce on a farm whelp, dying, <br />crying a faint crooked howl to Alfred's Hill; <br />and when the blue Saxon midnight met the sea, <br />under the high apples and the dancing stars <br />he crept like a doll of steel from a small owl-tree <br />to where the fire of a field bride opened its heart <br />and the stretching firs were a part of her brown flesh <br />branched bare in the hanging nightwind, <br />and he bound her sweet hand-blossoms with goblin ivy; <br />took her summe gold; and his gay sword <br />held her scream quiet in her waking breath.<br /><br />Eric Ratcliffe<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-gentle-raider-v2/
