From forefathers’ farmstead hunger me hounded
With woman and bairns and some wretched remains:      
Leaping alone on the deep, our boat bounded
Away from the homeland of Angles and Danes.      

For days the deck dandled on wastes of grey water,
And shivered and shook in the growl of a gale
While sea monsters daunted my wife and my daughters
And I drew deep draughts from an ox-horn of ale.                 

The strong ones – the heroes – they breasted and braved
Those terrible fathoms of fearfullest depth,
And steadily steered us through wind and through wave
While cursing all cowards, disdainful of death.

But Njord sent a silver-winged gannet to guide us.
Impatient for cornlands by weal or by war,
We raced with the wind and the sunrise behind us,                    
And sure was our way to a grey wooded shore. 

On the flood, up a watercourse muddily canting  
Through marshes where mist devils wreathed among reeds,
Where pastures awaited our ploughing and planting
We oared ourselves bravely, emboldened by need.

But furtive eyes followed our struggle upstream
As we ventured our vessel in menacing silence.
The landscape seemed empty, yet sometimes the gleam
Of a blade in the coverts of blackthorn spoke violence.

Whoever they were, they were ready for raiders;
And we, to contest our new home to the last.
Still no-one molested, still no-one waylaid us.
At length we approached apprehensive, and passed,

As we warily, wearily rieved up the river,
A barrack abandoned, a half-ruined hall.
Within arrow’s reach but wavering never
While Britons looked on from those broken-down walls

Some long-vanished Legion had left there, and stared
From their crumbling defences of rubble and stones.
We were outnumbered, but though we prepared
For foray or ambush, they left us alone.

Where the shallows gave out and we grounded the keel   
At a bend in the vale, shipped oars and dropped sail,  
An auspicious white egret wheeled over the field
Where we sit by this hearth where I tell you this tale.

So here we sowed barley, roots, rye and wheat;
Brewed strong Saxon beer, baked good Saxon bread;
Our sheep grazed and grew, gave us wool, milk and meat.
Brides were my daughters for Britons – both wed                  

Sons of the tribe we had troubled when first
Setting foot on their dale in that dangerous dawn.
Then you came along, with lungs fit to burst,
Your grandfather’s joy from the day you were born.

Well, we followed the fashion for Cross and for Christ,
Acknowledged His kingship to keep a calm life,                    
Forswore the old gods, and got us baptised.                 
I bowed to His will when He took my young wife….

Your grandmother’s happy in heaven, they say,
Spinning and weaving a wool of pure gold
Where angels sit feasting and drinking all day.
Another turf on the fire, boy, these evenings are cold.

Yes, I, a dull peasant, she thought me so grand,           
Me, shy of adventure and frightened of pain….       
But these fields were fertile, four cows bore my brand,
And I, a true Saxon, lived up to my name

Of Earth-Brother.  They’ll tell you in our mother tongue
That heroes are warlike, wield swords, win more land,
Yet I was content among swine and their dung.
The ploughshare I chose; but, boy, understand:              

All-Fatherly fortune has favoured my choice.
You wonder, wide-eyed, would I do it again?
The ocean, the fear?  Hear an old voice: 
The heart in the breast of my broodiest hen

Beats brave as the heart of a hero – but then,
No courage is needed to counter the new.        
Heroes are merely a notion of men.
The future must happen; will happen to you.

*****

Martin Briggs writes: “Saxon” began as an experiment.  I wanted to think myself into the frame of mind of men forced by circumstances to seek out and colonise new lands – a situation being re-enacted tragically today in response to environmental and other pressures.  The heavy alliteration reflects the Anglo-Saxon predilection for the same, and the persistent rhythm is intended to convey a sense of bardic tradition.”

“Saxon” was first published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal.  This version has been subject to very minor revision.

Martin Briggs only began writing in earnest after retiring from a career in public administration, since when his work has appeared in a variety of periodicals and formats on both sides of the Atlantic.  He regards form, rhyme and metre as a liberating force rather than a constraint, and as a means of perpetuating a tradition which is as old as poetry itself.  He lives in Suffolk, a part of England where Anglo-Saxons settled quite densely. 

Photo: “The Saxon Huscarl” by One lucky guy is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.