Ealde Englaland

Amelie Chloe

The racing of tongues

Running to finish the Swēg                                           (sound)

So foreign 

Under my maypole phonics

The brewing vowels

Lingering like the boiling Ċetel                                     (kettle)

That announces itself each afternoon

Acennan                                                                         (bring forth)

Anhaga                                                                           (Solitary one)

To this place of findung                                                  (discovery)

The cobbles don’t wylde                                                (roll)

Like the paths of home

The crumble comes out the oven

And the ēaðm that surrounds it                                      (steam)

Isn’t as comforting 

Without the accompanying ciele                                     (chill)

Of Englaland                                                                  (England)

Nostalgic 

For a time I've never lived

Our language forgotten 

Cyme eft tō þǣre wēoh-treowe                                       (come back to the willow tree)

Does it whisper 

In old 

Can you hear the organ mimic 

The ancient turn of phrase

Lege handa ofer þæs tigelan þonne.                              (place hands on the bricks of then)

And tell me 

They don’t mimic tone

The lute, vielle, psaltery,                                               

Befongen on tīde                                                            (trapped in time)