Today, in Caithness, the sun is shining and the air is clear. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to anyone reading this blog that, certain weathers and certain times of the year ignite certain music in me. And, on late winter days which are filled with sunshine, I am usually to be found singing the songs of The Spinners . Inevitably, I start humming different ones of their songs (and of course adapting them to be about Orlando and Jess) as I go around doing different things. But I remember almost all the words to them. I haven't heard a lot of them in years, but they are all there, rooted in my memory. It is truly fascinating to think about how these songs have passed through history. They are part of my own nostalgia, which is why crisp sunny mornings make me incapable of ignoring the temptation to sing them, but they are part of something much bigger. There are songs amongst them which are a newer step in the folk music movement. Songs like Silver in the Stubble are amongs...
Continuing from last week's post which explored Artwork as Inspiration (the starting point for Proof of the Old Faith) I'm sticking with Norse culture. Here is The Weave of the Norns, a poem I wrote a few years ago about these three frightening women.
Enjoy!
The Norns by Arthur Rackham
Beneath the threat of utter doom
he sought them at their fabled loom.
The king searched on until he found
them on the morrow’s battleground.
The tallest worked the wheel alone;
the next, a shuttle made of bone;
the shortest bore a silver sword
with which she severed each loose cord.
What pattern spun these women three,
dictating mankind’s victory!
“I come to beg you demonstrate
a gentle weaving of our fate.”
“Then know you this, oh man of peace,
we weave the thread and cannot cease.”
“Weave us an ending to this war
and grant us threads of peace once more.”
“What cost would such a wise man pay
for us to change our weave this way?”
And now he saw the bloody thread,
time’s fabric dripping crimson red.
As though she took him in her hand
he felt her pull aside one strand.
“You have forgone your chance to leave.
Your life is foretold in the weave.”
The sword cut clear, the thread hung down,
the mediator lost his crown.
For Fate demands a sacrifice
to cast aside her weighted dice.
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