Holly
As she walked across the sand,
receding waves made graffiti
out of the footsteps of a Valkyrie.
An ocean’s city let go of her hand
as we passed under a tree –
her hair like the gold of Valhalla’s marquee.
It was there, in another god’s hall,
the raven flew under a ceiling of shields,
and her grace lived in every swan.
It was then, when I first met need,
thirsting for wine but settling for mead.
Baldr’s death carved into a stone wall
moved me west to the mistletoe.
Her face held by another, his fingers
the lightening that tore open the skies
and bled the blue into her eyes.
My first loss and left out of place,
to learn what can’t be taught.
Copyright © Rob Carmack | Year Posted 2018
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