© Christopher Raine
RAINE REFLECTIONS
www.RaineReflections.com
Strait of Belle Island
In songs, we sing, our fortunes told
our entrails strewed in halls hallowed.
Valhalla calls to western shores
by luminous stones, by hope’s allure.
Our glorious death remains there still
to face the sea and brave the swell.
Our iron blood
stains these rocks,
our sacrifice
set to discordant choirs
of ravenous gulls
and sea lions
and the cruelty
of those who came,
of those who left,
of those who lived.
A flash of lightning
tears the heavens,
our painted features
glistening in the storm,
the clinker-built knar,
rising and falling,
rising and falling,
nótt enda dagr:
interwoven thoughts,
memories,
distant memoirs,
grimoires,
testaments
to the metaphysics
of slumbering gods.
This Newfoundland coast,
ragged and cruel,
sublime as the face of Hel.
A hard life to the bitter end
of weathered hands
and lonely oak leaves
caught by sou’wester winds,
adrift to blackened seas
capped by cresting
white-lustful plumes
to the rising sound
of the rushing
throaty-swoosh
anticipating
the breathless crash
of gossiping rocks
rising like mountains
in lustful crescendo,
cruelty echoed
in the applause
of an amphitheatre.