My long throat is ice-white, but my head,
like my flanks, flames like the setting sun.
I am a warrior. My ears spike high
above my eyes, my cloak is bristle-barbed,
and so my cheeks. My gait is fleet.
I easily thread, on my fighting feet,
green staves. Yet I sing a stricken song
when the death-hound comes sniffing
my scant home. Then I hide my children,
and we bide in a love-circle
while doom seeks our covert door;
it moves above our trembling heads.
That death-bringer, fearful and foul,
wishes to fetch us all, yawping,
to our slaughter— so, handing
and footing it, I gather my brood,
swiftly secure a secret way
out of the steep slope, into the light,
where I scurry my dear urchins
from hurt’s intent. Free of my babes,
I am a fortress against death.
He may scent me on narrow paths,
but I will turn, whirling, tooth and claw
battle-slipping that frenzied creature
the slay stroke— severing,
through touch and grip, his hated neck.
Through hill’s roof I will stay the course,
fighting to the last. It is then
I will see the whites of his eyes.
Links:
[1] https://www.ablemuse.com/v9/bio/bertha-rogers?s=69752ab60cf547717e9c37fd0bc27744
[2] https://www.ablemuse.com/v9/poetry-translation/bertha-rogers/anglo-saxon-riddle-27?s=69752ab60cf547717e9c37fd0bc27744