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I call to Belatucadros, light of the mere,
friend of those who count their wealth in copper coins,
who know the worth of a loaf of bread when winter comes.
Long ago your name was carved in red, spoken
by those who held the line, who trod in the mud,
side by side with their fellows, their friends, their kin.
Beautiful in battle, beautiful in the hunt,
you wear the ornaments of war, the sharpened shaft,
the bloodied blade; you hold in hand the lives of men,
to scatter afield for the raven’s feed
or set aside for another season.
Belatucadros, ancient one, I honor you.
Fieldstones 