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.
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