Morning of the Galanas (blood-feud)

The 'Sarhaed' of a tribal blood-feud

Morning breaks like blood in milk and heavenly Gwenwyn moving massive, as Maev’s ships once choked the Western Isles, to conquer western passage. Once more pretenders come in monumental dust with sacred blood-oaths sworn, approaching with a warring gait toward out hilltop Dun. The melody of metal chinc  and chirp of leather strap, on blessed bronze chamfrein sings out, with silent step where frost still dwells, with laboured breath and hoof-fall muffled well. A spit for luck and merry jape for some with glance askew, to overcome death’s pending wings but most brood silent with unspoken prayer, contemplating ‘ere this ruddy morning brings.

Cornonnyn and his baited host await this bloody banquet rare, to dark rejoice the blood-drenched spillers and the spoilers, of this ancient land the valiant share. Superstitions freely swim as white Druidic gowns glide past, with shrieking mien and hooded countenance, uttering black prayers of a dark repast. Whilst in our naked vanguard, our wire-lipped Sisters now unfurl, entranced in spirit for the Gods alone, inspired with Torc and single sacred blade to whirl. Spirits move as fleeting ghosts, to flit through men and torture thoughts, spurred on to bright emotion without pause, but tempered well with courage and an honoured cause.

Now this ruddy morning cold, our cenedl draw near in mail, and cefndr too it will be told, now gelyn fierce from
Treflan near and to this Caer they stride, with gimlet eyes and shining steel, to claim their owed ‘sarhaed’.  Our combrogi come with good intent, for this Galanas must be made and not be left unpaid, for four-score years as lent. Payment now their Gwyr commands, in blood and bone and many broken hearts, this ruddy day forlorn demands. Come the colours - come our Lords to affably confer, the fate of all who watch with baited breath and honest mortal fear.  They bow and posture as their line befits, as if they bid ‘good-morrow!’,  so simply does the mantle fit, as their poor werrin drown in everlasting sorrow. To arms we rush, with dog and horse and carbad swift, led by our flaming-crowns so bold, who dance as Lord Govannon’s fiery gift and blithely face our countrymen of old. Gathered are the clans again, to rage and scour this meadow sweet, as Beli did and Leir before, with guile and magic did they meet.

So swift were they who ruled the sky, who’s glimpse was far more fleeting, than sad Blodeuwedd’s tearful eye. Come the champions for their right in meat as well as battle, to stoutly claim the ‘Ran y Rhyswr’ and test their edge of metal. Oh raucous clamour - fateful din, how can thy brothers claim to win? And thee, what token lands or blessed loot, or heads collected here, with honour claimed of vaunted Bri, or the conquering of fear?
Tradition lives in our red blood and favoured is the Bard so well, for he as Taliesin spoke in music chains of silver-chased, shall live for all the ages yet to tell. A silver shield we both should keep, together with a blissful heart in all that we hold dear, so our poor werrin nevermore be forced to bitter weep. For if our hips were gladly joined along with mighty thigh, as souls and hearts and shield-arms linked, with shining terror held up high, no threat from eastern shores of low black Saxony, would ever fall on these men of everlasting fame; Brython’s noble heads of mail, forged in Govannon’s blinding flame.

But as the humble busy bee, who only sees his fragrant rows, but yet his life is full, enchanted by what flowers speak, in whispered scented prose. But nothing of these fated souls in armoured fury does it know, and just as happy should we be, in similar repose. For if this bloody task deferred and blow delivered so ill, be traded for a sight so pure, as a snowdrop lee, or dew-soaked meadow in the evening still, so happy would we be. We Brythons could if truth be told, live as lifelong brothers strong and bold, forever free in a paradise of shared good-will. Far improved, from a black jagged fortress on a lonely hill. Eifion Wyn Williams.

Original poetry from; https://www.pinterest.co.uk/EifionWynWilliams/iron-blood-sacrifice-the-trilogy/the-sacking-of-bidog-book-two/