(Russell J Turner)
Her mountain tops are cast like stepping stones
across the fields and forests, down the glen
where deer run between her strides and then
the hammer falls. All silence. Owls are flown
into the night, beyond the tracks of bone
which spiral downwards. Downwards, once again,
it is the doom and destiny of men
to live, to strive, to die beneath her throne.
She strikes a summer bargain with her shade ‒
a covenant not made with pen and ink ‒
division of forever is the price
which both will pay. She gathers up her blade
to strip the logs and kindling, then she drinks
deep from the well before it turns to ice.