The Oseberg

The room scarcely alive
With the sound of hollow steps.

Excavated from home soil
From glorious Earth’s depths.

Endless eyes that glance over
The embellished and handcrafted form.

Won’t understand her strength within
Because no longer does she ride the storm.

Kinsmanship that has been forgotten
For the hands that crafted are long gone.

Won’t ever feel the salty waves again
Or hear a Viking’s song.

She cares not for visitors
Who come to fill an empty afternoon.

Neither does she care for guides
Who feel their words to be a boon.

But how she longs to be caressed
By the unrelenting sea.

And waves that crash and break upon
The beautiful bow of she.

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The Willow’s Sentiment

Willow, Willow, I stare upon your worn and weathered face,
How you hold your cherished leaves in a soft and sweet embrace.
Lissome in form, body entwined but strong,
Basking in the delight of a distant nightingale’s song.
Enchanted by you, my mind is enthralled,
As if you speak to me personally, your memories are recalled.
Jaded maids who slept in your shade from the midday Sun,
Thrushes built nest in your branches to nurse their young.
Illuminated by the pale, blue moonlight,
A rendezvous point for forbidden lovers at night.
And all alone in the bleak Winter’s snow,
You still sheltered the traveller who had far to go.
Willow, Willow, oh how you quietly observed,
And relinquished the company, without utterance of a word.