Olde Mann

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Banyanamin’s reign – the oil ran sweetly on this, his Holy isle’s embrace

Adorned as if with golden crown – of sweat and bone and fur and entrance

Candid skies, circle of morning grey neath both tha’ bronzed n’broiled long hae’ther 

Such starlight eyes, so burning sentinels within any weather bruised nor fine

Grizzled, matted and thick locked-hair hangs, sweet rabbit-pelts on a poachers pole

This prince, championed by his sternest stare, snorts and swallows purest air

Haunches bowed, the neck, the sinews set, the collar, adorned this chosen parapet 

As if the day were born in summer-sun be bears against the cold, ash-broken night

Purveys a scene of longest sight, to stamp, to wrestle, then to shout his hollow roar 

Of beasts ancient, memories found, not caged or bound – the wolf, the bear, the boar

And Beowulf, vacant ghost of lands, rocks and nature’s grist…