Yet he abides,
in rock and mud entombed,
and with his final blood,
he feeds the land;
no earthly king shall rule
without a morning taste
of Grendel.

Nor any human place arise
that has not Grendel at its base
and underneath its pediment;
the welded flesh and excrement,
motherless scream
of motherkilled child;
of Grendel.

This is the place which Grendel owns;
this the terrible ground,
this the elder heritage:
may no thing grow
which does not grow
in cruel death
and Grendel.

All pomp, pretense and civil fiction,
Child of Day; Child of Light;
believe it at your peril, 
and think, today
of elder things
and mighty, waiting,
deep-within-you
Grendel.

©  Copyright, 2000; Malcolm Beckett