This is the title poem from my first anthology, a slim volume of 27 poems, self-published in August, 2014 and available on Amazon or from me (email@example.com) for £5 with the whole of the proceeds being donated to Prostate Cancer UK (£1150 raised so far).
Eric Blood Axe?
He was quiet and introverted. A nod would just suffice.
He minded his own business, wouldn’t pry at any price.
He nurtured his allotment plot with tender loving care,
but sometimes you might catch him with a far off, wistful stare.
He’d sit down with his mug of tea, well-earned mid-morning break,
or pause from planting labours and lean hard upon his rake.
His head would fill with images that frankly he deplored.
He had no explanation as shrill noises howled and roared.
It seemed he manned a long boat oar with rough and calloused hands.
He’d crossed the sea at risk of life to reach these hostile lands.
He wore a Viking helmet, by his side his trusty axe,
which hung there at the ready till he reached their squalid shacks.
Blood-curdling oaths he’d utter as he lashed out left and right.
He never gave a second thought, just hacked with all his might
and speed was of the essence ere the men folk would return:
seize what they could, then back to sea and leave the huts to burn.
Were Eric’s ancestral voices an echo from his genes?
He mulled this concept over as he hoed his peas and beans.
These days he rakes and tillages. It’s spuds that he will sack
and only in odd moments DNA will draw him back.
The distant past lies buried and long gone those roving bands.
Nowadays, blood, fish and bone meal, it is on Eric’s hands.
So, pass the time of day with him, then leave him to his work.
For there’s the faintest, outside chance that Eric’ll go berserk.