Following 9th century monks as they flee from invading vikings with the body of St Cuthbert and the Lindisfarne Gospels – and undertake a momentous journey that helps shape England
Sometimes I plunge through the press of waves
unexpectedly, delving to the earth,
the ocean bed. The waters ferment,
sea-horses foaming ..
The whale-mere roars, fiercely rages,
waves beat upon the shore; stones and sand,
seaweed and saltspray, are savagely flung
against the dunes when, wrestling
far beneath the waves, I disturb the earth,
the vast depths of the sea. Nor can I escape
my ocean bed before he permits me who is my pilot
on every journey. Tell me, wise man:
who separates me from the sea’s embrace,
when the waters become quiet once more,
the waves calm which before had covered me?Sometimes I swoop to whip up waves, rouse
the water, drive the flint-grey rollers
to the shore. Spumming crests crash
against the cliff, dark precipice looming
over deep water; a second tide,
a sombre flood, follows the first;
together they fret against the sheer face,
the rocky coast. Then the ship is filled
with the yells of sailors
Anglo Saxon Riddle