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.

Lost Words

I went to find the words
Wraiths from the past
Blind text
Some turns of phrase
turning through my life like seagulls
living on scraps of crap. Detritus
Some mediocre mouthings in the wind
Flipping in my past
But they’re gone
drifting away
neglected fading in old formats
on unreadable blank scraps of
black plastic
If they are even there
shifting away from me on
currents of my life
of my past
twisting against the stream

I try to catch them
twisting away turning through
water air thought memory
How much flesh will they yield
scraps of shimmer and ghost and pain


Copyright © 2011 Elizabeth Cutts