Out of the Mouth

Out of the mouth of Storm Cave rode Odin on Sleipnir.

Behind him rode the wind.

They left their mountain far below as they went.

Out for the day, in for the fray.

Southwestward, the coast is clear.

As the storm grew in power, it grew in size.

Thundering hoofbeats carried, carrying all before.

The storm was now gale force, a mighty roar.

Over town and city, over countryside they soared.

The two in one on the run,

unmindful of the cold sweat they get all God fearing folk.

"Work on the kirk that stands on the cite of my temple."

The faithful heard him not,

but thinking Dooms Day was at hand, they exclaimed,

"This is the end, Heaven forfend."

Then Odin addressed the wind,

"Overthrow yonder steeple that pricks my sky."

Over the steeple went, and half of a tower, too.

The steeple people cried, "An act of God."

"Right you are," said Odin.

"We will build it back again,"

The steeple people avowed,

As Odin answered them, saying, "What goes up must come down."

"Battering rams are nothing between us together.

We simply can't be beat. In stormy weather nothing stands in our way.

Galloping on, out of the dawn, we wager, and win the day,"

Odin said with a toss of his horry head.

Then he addressed an oak, uprooted with all the rest,

"You can't withstand a storm?

Fair weather tree, sink your taproot lower,

if you care to cope with me.

You should be half underground.

To emulate the sand lily dig you, ten meters down."

Then when the storm was over, they went back to Storm Cave,

and there they fell asleep, to dream of Sleipnir,

Odin's eight legged horse.