There may be no kingly body in a grave
but this armour of an emperor ruled a ship
in patterns forged from Roman templates,
mixed with Anglo-Saxon tracery in beasts
and magic knots of such complex chain weave
it cannot be followed from braided end to end
like a manuscript border of monastic craft
blood red ink and gold from dragon scales
as full of pagan life as sacred image woven.

Garnets ornament filigree, gems of mosaic glass
inlay great buckles of old East Anglian make,
bright escutcheons and glad cloisonne fibulae
astonish firelit ambers from forgotten camps
where everyone’s beard caught on fire
and everywhere on board gold-studded weapons
guard this buried ship with swords and hoards
muscled away from dead enemies as in dragon caves
piled high with Frankish coin and Byzantine plate.

Roars of war long subsided and harsh clangings
of axes against iron has sunk into fen clay
after this ship sailed off into its Suffolk mist
to bardic harps and hymns of warrior bands
blind to us but sails filled with winds singing
from everywhere this high king had battled,
now buried, now bursting from an earthy wave,
its sharp prow aimed straight like a strong spear
at those lodestone gates of the next world.