Angel of death

Angel of death

Introduction 

Note: this poem was inspired by separate conversations with three nurses that had worked on terminal wards. All of which could recount several cases, as witnessed first hand, of a person who was in their last hours or days apparently seeing another person standing by their bed that was not in corporeal form to be seen by the nurse. Some nurses see this as a sign that the end is near.

In this poem we imagine ourselves back in Saxon times as the healer in the village comes to her end and is greeted by the kindly angle of death (Wodan was also called Grimr) to guild her to the other world. I have made her very old for the period, about 60. A study concluded that 97.5% of people were dead by 50 during Saxon times. The description of her abode is based on archaeological evidence. The reference to aelf shot is from medical books of the time, see Lacnunga and leech books, and refers to any disease caused by an aelf firing an invisible arrow into you, e.g. any viral infection. A galdor is a charm, spell or incantation, from galan= to sing (preserved in the word nightingale). Heofon is the forerunner to heaven. The way of Wyrd was a fatalistic world view where there was an underlying connecting principle, similar to the way of Tao.

Angel of death

Small pit hut, with reeds on the floor,

No windows but, an oaken door.

Copper cauldron, over fire stone,

Warn old thatched roof, medicinal crone.

Old wise wife man, soon to be gone,

Healing people, thirty years long.

The angel of death, now close by,

Helping her to, depart and die.

The last night tide, here at last,

Toiling in meads, forty years passed.

On wooden bed, and straw there laid,

With elder daughter, there to aid.

Herbs in mead, carefully uproot,

Fifty years finding, nuts and fruit.

Survived she war, plague and child birth,

Gaest she soon, to mother earth.

Weapon man gone, many a year,

Sixty winters, soon on her bier.

In small village, eldest was she,

But aelf shot did, she not foresee.

Daughter now older, than most folk,

Waiting for Wodan, wrapped in cloak.

Mother’s galdors, not all well learnt,

Which fragrant herbs, should beest burnt.?

Runes to charm, hot cauldron to brew,

Which herbs to keep, the mixture true.

Where when how, healing herbs to find,

No one morrow, her to remind.

Oh Heofon death, where art thy sting,

Kind angel of death, other world bring.

In the morrow, another day,

The children play, this is Wyrd’s way.

Copyright Andrew Rea 2010