Skaldic Eagle Flight School

From trees are made
us true heathens,
and I seek silence
for singing my praise
of that tallest tree
— truly mighty —
that holds the homes
and is hight Yggdrasil.

From its drops of dew,
a draught I brew
of Ygg’s ale now
and open that flow
to stir with words
our wode tonight.
Drink now deeply
this draught of skalds.

Of trees it is best
and I truly name
the nine bright worlds
that needle-ash bears.
The North has Niflheim
and its numbing Ice.
The South has Muspellsheim
and its searing Fire.

The West has Vanaheim,
the world of the Vanir.
The East has Jötunheim,
the Etins’ home realm.
Above is Ljósálfheim,
the blessed realm of Elves.
Below is Svartálfheim,
the land of the Dwarves.

Highest is Asgard,
home of the Aesir.
Lowest is Hel,
the land of the Dead.
But Midgard for Man
is in the middle of all.
Now hight are the worlds
that hang on that Tree.

With worlds all nine,
that Wood does shine.
Always that Tree
evergreen shall be.

That Tree rises
from roots and wells;
three each it has,
its thirst they quench.
A root in Hvergelmir
— that roiling cauldron —
provides it the power
of primal nature.

A root in Mímisbrunn
— that Mímir watches —
stores the matter
of memory and wisdom.
A root in Urðarbrunn
— the realm of the Norns —
accumulates the wyrd
that works in the Tree.

From the wells it needs
those waters and deeds.
Always that Tree
evergreen shall be.

Burdened with beasts,
it bears them well.
A stately eagle
stands at the top,
Níðhögg beneath
gnaws on the roots,
and Ratatosk with gossip
runs between them.

Hungry harts four
harrow it also.
Numberless serpents
slither beneath it.
In farthest future
the fire of Surt
will burn the Tree’s
trunk and branches.

That harm and thrash
hinders the Ash.
Though trials arrive,
the Tree will survive.

Near Urðarbrunn
the Norns do dwell.
The first is Urð
of formative past.
The second is Verðandi
of ceaseless becoming.
The third is Skuld
of threatening due.

With water and mud
they wet the Tree
to keep away
decay and rot,
and they lay layers
for life in the Well;
their faithful work
furthers that Tree.

With wyrd they heal
that Wood’s ordeal.
Though trials arrive,
the Tree will survive.

But the best of burdens
it bore of old
when the Aesir’s lord
— eager for wisdom —
sought the mysteries
and mounted that Steed
for nights all nine
of needful riding.

Thund was hanging
in thirst and hunger
from high branches
with harrowing wound
to gain by ordeal
a glimpse of death;
thus as gallows
the great Tree served.

The Worker of Wode
wanted the power
that was offered only
by the awesome Runes.
With a final scream
he fulfilled his quest
and lifted at last
their lore from the Tree.

Great Yggdrasil
is always green,
despite the burdens
that would break its spirit;
that source of life
and sacred lore
is ever deserving
of honor and praise.

May Elm and Ash
give ear to these words:
Outside and in,
Yggdrasil is real,
and may this mead
give might to both —
to the Tree without,
to the Tree within!