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