Oft him anhaga/Often the solitary one
are gebideð,/finds grace for himself
metudes miltse,/the mercy of the Lord,
þeah þe he modcearig/ Although he, sorry-hearted,
geond lagulade/ must for a long time
longe sceolde/ move by hand [in context = row]
4a hreran mid hondum/along the waterways,
hrimcealde sæ/ (along) the ice-cold sea,
wadan wræclastas./ tread the paths of exile.
Wyrd bið ful aræd!/ Events always go as they must!
"Where you been,Hickey? You been scarce."
True, my friend; very true. To wax mysterious . . . There's a road that leads away from most things.
Gnaw on that nugget for a few moments, Boys and Girls! To most, in Truth, I have been missed as much as cold sores on a pretty girl's lips and as necessary as a beer summit.
Really, Kids, this past month has been devoted to a special writing project.
My road is fraught with ice cream sandwiches and long walks in tall soft grass. Occasionally, I cut the soles of these old dogs on cast away pop tops from the 1970's and the odd shard of glass, but a good squirt of Unguentine does the trick and I gets them feet to walkin' again!