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Seiðkona

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Drums pound the bones and rattle the flesh

He calls, his voice deeper than the ancient rock beneath his feet.

Come, he cries, come to see,

the Maiden gives birth to thee.

Crowds sway, bodies blown by the echoes and throes.

They cry aloud in unison and clutch their runes as

galdr resonates through them all.

He calls again, Come, come to see,

the Mother weeps at the death of thee.

The seiðkona twitches, all else of her body made of stone,

her black veil rippes as the galdr strikes its pitch again,

sending shivers across her pale arms.

But still she does not move.

The crowds have fallen now, crawling on hands and knees,

weak voices trying to keep the drums pace

keep the sacred circle safe

keep the doors open.

But they cannot. Her fate lies in the galdrman’s hands,

to summon her back from the nine realms,

to return the völva home.

Drums rattle bones and shake flesh

as the galdrman cries a final please,

Come, come, come to see,

the Crone raises hell to return thee.

The beating of hearts and animal skins stops,

as when death rips the soul free from its body,

and in the silence

her veil slips

her eyes flicker open,

and she returns, renewed, to her flesh and blood;

the witch awakens to the physical world

yet carries in her heart the

dark and desperate knowledge gifted from worlds beyond.

Come, come, come to me, she croaks,

what questions of gods and fates would you ask of me?

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Written March 2024