Beowulf: A Fresh Translation

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 Beowulf: A Fresh Translation


A dozen days instead of years, 

but who in this feather-flung haze 


is counting? Each evening one less 

mounting the roost, tucking wings


against a coming sure as night

itself, clucking what wordless things 


beg sounding before the door swings shut  

and the woods awake. What liquid suns


we brood upon, what potential

we warm in the fragile hope of a hatch


before it’s time: metallic click of a latch, 

masked shadow shaping through a crack


we didn't think to fortify. Come morning

down-feathers will scuttle silently 


across the field like ships on a breeze. 

So this, then, Hrothgar, is what brought you    


to your knees, another clipped and ruffled king 

perched on the promontory, watching the sea.


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