Ruins of Greenland Hvalsey Church, Jon Vidar Sigurdsson photo, Wikipedia.

Lofty-wingéd mind, where did we fly last
Night? To Greenland grassy cliffs, radiant
Summer sun, flourishing Viking farmsteads,
Thriving colonies, building Hvalsey Church,
Hand-laid Ashlar stones, longships ocean-
Riding, sails wind-stretched, Eric the Red’s
Noble age of exploration and rule.

My soul amongst scudding clouds, chance
Encounter with past lifetimes, Shieldmaiden
Brithe, Thera of ancient Attic Greece, poetic
Sisters, nestled touching, timeless warmth
Sun-sleeping on family-woven blanket,
Towering heights overlooking ships of sail
Wave cresting on idyllic ice-cluttered seas.

Were they slumbering in my consciousness
Until poetically awakened or suspended on
Mystic planes?  Perhaps days of Thera and
Brithe were graced with Calliope and Erato,
Phrased verses oft spirited to me. As I des-
Cended on their enchanted cliff, my presence
Unexpected, they startled from deep sleep.

Neither estranged nor dead, we did not speak
At first. Wondrous wrinkled time, Brithe
Related Viking exploits, Helluland and Mark-
Land, glimpsed visions of one persona felt
In Thera’s dark, inquisitive eyes, Brithe’s
Blues like mine, expressions of one in three,
Spanning broad oceans and millennia.

“Where are we?” I asked, concerned for tres-
Passing twixt realms temporal and divine,
Mightier than the sea. “Another reality we
Have chosen,” Thera said. “Lives restored
By poetry, in heroic histories we revel, of
Hemistiches and staves, our storied lives
Inscribed on agéd parchment and papyri.

"The Household Gods," John William Waterhouse, 1880, Wikimedia photo. Brithe standing, Thera on bended knee.
“The Household Gods,” John William Waterhouse, 1880, Wikimedia photo. Brithe standing, Thera on bended knee.

Satisfied with Brithe’s company, Thera could
Not answer “where,” warmth of summer sun,
Commanding view of Havsley Church, fiord
Leading to open sea, and questioned not my
My presence, poetess recounting their exploits,
Whale-path sailing or Pantheon god-obedient
Daughter, triremes on cerulean Ægean Seas.

Who am I to say their existence is not real?
Perhaps they reside in fibers of my mind, or
As I suspect, found life amongst airy clouds,
Music of lute and lyre, in loving care of ocean
Muses, reality gifted by blesséd gods, relieved
Of pain and sickness, their votive offerings for
Our soul, prayers for past and present lives.

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