Freja - the Farmer's Wife

Day's knife is in night’s sheath The moon's eye is covered. She sits over their scattered bones Feeling only the cold dirt And the swirling fog. Her hand grips for the hilt And she hears the singing blade. The flails are only for threshing now, Passions are muted. Those that swarmed with her On these hills Wait for her command, Her voice to sing out over the field And raise them up. It is worth dying here again for you. Each next day she puts down her basket, kneels down to fill it, full. “Things grow well under Your hands” he says, proudly. She stands alone now, The day done, Hands on hips, Baby in the grass Feeling the blood surge And hearts flame. They are ready to storm with her over the potatoes Turnips, onions laughter and moans filling the air With the sound of sweet, sweet Battle.