Wood and wode. Calling.
Cut wire singing the winter winds. Let the barbs dance the fall behind and wander along the dark tall. Pine, they call them. That is not their name — so say the moss; so say the mould. There, across the fallen brown, barefoot.
I’m given of stone, both the black and the red, the grey and the scorned. Lake there, standing, the wilder lands below.
I am pale the bone. Without meat to carry.
Gone wēstengenga — in shadow, of wode, in alone.
I like the word ‘wēstengenga’ (which, obviously, I had to look up). Interesting how languages overlap in word formation; I was aware of kennings in Old Norse, but not in Anglo-Saxon – although it shouldn’t be surprising.
Plenty of symbolism here – names, for example – when something changes (a fallen tree) is it still a tree? Or something new? And are names merely aiming to catch a feeling?
I appear to have gone all philosophical!
Philosophical is the best place to be in these kinds of things sometimes. Goodness knows I am probably overly so when I make my poor attempts at writing 😂
I am finding myself withdrawing more with each season. Pretty soon I’ll be living in a cave, I expect.
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