Email Poem

Your IP Address: 18.216.239.73
Your Email Address:
To Email Address:
Subject
Personal Note:
Poem Title:
Poem

The appearance of his old friend brought new thoughts of his mother and, Nordgrend, the town in which  they spent the last few years.  Raðulfr, was a truly kind man and he was delighted with the toys and weaving that his mother and he made by hand.  He first bought their goods to sell in his shop but soon they became so popular that he gave a small space to them where they could sell their creations on their own.  Her deft hands aged, but still as agile as when she was a girl, weaved delicate fabrics with elaborate patterns from fine threads of silk and linen, turning burlap into filaments of gold, and he creating toys and clocks and magical animated objects that entranced the children and adults alike throughout the village.  To his delight a few weeks after arriving he found that the merchant had a very beautiful daughter who had been away with a caravan that was sent to purchase supplies and merchandise for sale during the long upcoming winter.  They would not be able to get another sleigh out until the sun lengthened the warming days and the spring thaw arrived.  He was shy around her and she was his opposite.  He, quiet and reserved and she, like her fiery red hair, bubbly and effervescent, dancing to music of her own making, singing and laughing with joyful enthusiasm for life, even, while having to live in this desolate land.  He felt feelings for her that were new to him.  She was his first true friend but she was more.  She amazed him and confused him and he loved being with her, and, what's more, she returned his enthusiasm to be near him.  His mother would smile each time she saw them together, as would her father.  They were happy here.
 Then change blew cold and the happiness faded.  One morning he found his mother lying on the floor of their cottage.  He ran to her and gently lifted her, placing her head in his lap.  Worriedly he asked her if she was well.  She simply said,
     “I am old, Litenalf.”
He had not heard that nickname for many years and it touched him.  He had to turn his head to hide his tears.
     “I will make you well, Mother,” he said as the power rose inside of him.
She took his hand and whispered faintly,
     “No, my beautiful son.  There is nothing you can do. Not even your gift can stop the world from turning.It is time for me, but you must remain.  Listen closely, if you leave this village travel north, always north.”  They had been traveling in a roundabout northerly direction for as long as he could remember.
     “But why,” he asked.
     “You will find your answers in the north,” was her halting reply.
     “Aisling, mother, I can't let you go,” returning the kindness of a familiar name.  One of his few memories of his father was the smile on his face when he called his mother by this pet name,
     “My Dream, my Vision, my Love, my Aisling,” he would say to her, as her beautiful smile spread wide across her face.
     “Aisling,” she whispered, “A loving sobriquet I haven't heard since your father...,” she choked and could not finish her reverie.
     “Father, what happened to him?” he asked.
His mother simply looked up at him and smiled.
     “North, my Love,” she whispered.
She died in his arms.

Soon after her passing, Sprinteren disappeared.  He searched for him for several days, and even listened for his bell, but the only sign he found was a single set of hoof tracks leading from the village.  He followed them until they merged with a great herd of deer.  He could easily have followed the herd but he had work to do and thought it best to let the deer grieve with its own kind; so, he set about carving a head stone of granite for his mother, he thought for a long time for just the right words to engrave into it.  A poem perhaps or wise saying, but he was unsure.  He did not know the actual date of her birth, for she would laughingly brush his question aside when he asked,
     “When is your birthday, mother?”
     “Oh, silly sweet boy, some time in December, just like your father's,” she would say, “Or is it January?”
     “What year were you born?” he would push.
     “How rude young man, you don't ask that of a young lady,” and under her breath, “Or an old one like me,” and she would chuckle.  He chose to leave off the date on which she died.  He was unsure of whether she and her father had actually married as she never referred to him as her husband, only as his father. She seldom spoke of him at all but he knew she loved him by the reverent yet joyful tone she used on the occasions when she did mention him. So many secrets she kept.  The places they traveled were so numerous and they changed their names so often he could not even remember his own true name.  Names such as Julenissen, Klaus, Weihnachtsman, Sinterklaas and so many, many more including his latest Joulupukki.  A sad smile briefly brightened his face, she had called him a Mid Winter Festival Goat. In each village they found a need to learn the local customs and language, at least enough to get by until their next move.  Their game began as a way to keep their conversation away from curious ears so as not to reveal too much of themselves.  Looking down at the headstone, Aisling was all he had carved.
It seemed enough.
CAPTCHA Preview
Type the characters you see in the picture
Required