A Chance Meeting
 
 
I came to watch the storm 
Out of my tavern - "The King's Horn" -  
A lovely place, on ancient quiet shore  
Of the Great River. 
He was already there.  
Waiting, his eyes riveted to the clouds, 
Dark, grey and heavy, of the same depth  
And colour. 
Eastern, a bit.  
A Northman, otherwise. 
Clothes too light for weather. 
(A northern leather outfit; high boots;  
a well-made travel cloak, dark green and grey. 
Well worn.) 
His look struck me like lightning. 
Tall, slender, heavy shoulders. A body of a king. 
Eyes of a god.  
When the storm came, he was the storm.  
It was the only time I saw 
True human happiness. 
A being one with the world 
Without "ifs" and "only whens", 
In greatness and pity, 
Glory and filth.    
The hens and straying dogs 
Hid under porches, 
Whipping streams of water  
Turned the ways to mud, 
Sky, field and forest 
Became as one, 
A roaring dark veil. 
He was alone.  
A heretic, of course.  
The proper folk 
Hide till the sunny weather, cursing 
At someone they don't know 
The name of, on such days. 
And so do I. But out here 
He was, for their better, 
For our worse. 
The God of Wrath 
Had got this soul without lies. 
Before my mind's eye I saw  
All this and more; 
And that part of me that wasn't yet his 
Bid me to go.  
Flee for your soul! - the trembling voices cried 
In depths of my Western mind 
And that was when he turned  
And looked at me. 
I met his eyes.  
And did not die.