The Sog

I sat by the Sog one morning
when sea-cold north winds blew,
looking on lands with hardly
a living thing in view.

But soon the blessèd sun rose,
sweeping the clouds away,
and worlds on worlds of creatures
woke to the newborn day.

Among them billions of blackflies
blotted the sun in murk
and swirled in swarms round Þórður
who swatted as if berserk.