Thralls

Thralls

1

Forest Mother has

risen from the stream.

     Still water bears

her up, and she blesses

          us, calls us:

we drift into her

     and awaken

under her limbs,

her leaves, her berries:

when Sige embarks,

our flies will watch him 

     —we who see all.

2

Under moonglow,

     we killers of goats,

we, wild, ineffable, secretive,

as if two-horned

     or two-shaped

          or ivy-covered

               or bull-faced, 

warlike, howling, pure.

3

          We stir and stir:

"Use the dark green parts of leeks

     in that broth," Hild demands.

4

We givers

     of mead, unmixed:

          Sige calls us, "You of the trees,

of the black goatskin,

you may pour mead on me as well!"

5

          We hear

Sige ask Hild, "Were these white

     petals always here,

          beneath me?"

6

With us, but magnified, 

          the fly’s eyes,

green then translucent blue,

then misty, glance around the dock:

     fly behind a cart,

          then over Sige's boat

moored to the rubble,

off shingle.

7

     Three ash trees scour

the sun: being born,

moon waves,

     tidal washing,

          then seaweed,

               gulls, haze: 

our flies watch us,

          see all:

     Sige embarks.

[mythopoeia]