Coronach
Gather the crowberries for this windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we pile together
a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us;
warm breath at our napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for a moment the wind resides.
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