It’s early as I step outside the longhouse. As well as
clear larksong there’s the chink of a chisel chipping stone.
In autumn, they bore my husband’s body back from Limerick
for burial. Now the rune maker is carving his first marks.
Though he’s more than a good bowshot away I can see
The man, see him hit the tool before I hear the sound.
Yesterday I watched him lightly trace the runes on the rock,
scratch straight lines, turn them into curves at the edges,
and now he’s hammering out the name of the man I loved,
whose children I bore and whom I shall join when it’s time.
I touch the bronze brooches Hauk brought me from Rus,
The beads of amber from Wollin, my inlaid bracelets.