by Rosa Campbell
I am wax on the water, wave-pilot,
night-thane. My reign is pale and wan
next to my star-sister, and so I shrink,
and daily abdicate the inky throne.
Scour the skies for me when you need
a single helping hand. For I am a bright
battle-light, last stand in a fight and
my arrow will guide the way to glory.
Look for me in king-lists: ninth father,
founder-prince. Wooden world-watcher
with one eye trained on the other and
weather overflowing my meadhall cup.
You’ll find me in the fields, friend. I am
hammered steel, homegrown Hercules.
Or else out in the dust of Thunder Road;
goat-towed, a hot-rod hometown god.
I am an act of love and a violent death;
blood-gold spills free from my eyes. I
have shares in sisters, milk-magic,
there for half a soldier’s homecoming.
Interloper I, liberated from Latin and
golden age guest. I keep the Sabbath
in my own tradition: shackles slacken
and we will reap in time’s ripeness.
I am southern-born, but look for me
in the northern midnight, moving
slow as a petulant child sent to bed.
I am flash-flood, flare-gun, flame.