Garor
written by: Clive Grewcock
There is a suggestion
that shadows cannot exist
by swimming beneath the surface,
off a distant Northern coast.
The heartless cold
lies in wait
like a dark soul
writhing uncontrollably.
Eel-like beneath
a changing surface,
shifting in and out
at the will of the tide.
As a test of our bravery
the shadows lie in wait,
coming close and then retreating –
the sea checks and reminds
those with feet still on dryland,
of the rich darkness offered below.
A force to be reckoned with
before it retreats in order to regroup.
Am I of the shadows?
For it surely shapes what has been
taken from its icy grasp,
having witnessed that underworld.
There is a Norse name for this
deeply chilling dwelling place.
The cold memory with a haunting call –
Garor.
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