It’s cold now. With Wuldor
Winter comes, the hunter.
The gusts freeze, in frost held
Forests, deer for guest’s meat.
See over icy fronds
Arrows fly the bows grip
To find the hard tined one
Taken, kill of Shield-Ase.


Copyright © Elizabeth Cutts 2009


As you can see from the copyright date this poem is an oldish one. This was my first and (lets be honest here) only attempt at a particularly gnarly form of Old Norse verse called dróttkvætt. Wuldor is an Anglo-Saxon god probably identifiable with the Old Norse god Ullr, a hunter god of Winter. Going into winter as we are it seemed an appropriate verse to post.

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