Thunder is Thor, riding out from his halls,
the stone wheels of his cart, clattering clouds,
splitting them with white sparks.
Stern, like the north wind, the shouter,
he stands, beside him his hammer,
grips the reins of his goats,
storms over Bifrost, bridge like a rainbow.
Mortals below seek shelter,
look up in awe, can only wonder
where he may travel,
cannot imagine his might,
his freedom, his pleasure.
More than warrior, mariner,
farmer, wanderer, he is a god,
foe of the frost giants,
husband of Sif, planter of cornfields,
the wild son of Odin,
like the dragon of Dark Fell,
guards well his treasure.
His ride surprises the sky,
splits clouds, hurls rain in a sudden,
leaves behind worlds, dark and broken.
When he has gone,
mortals understand once more why they praise him.