Gunnlodh's Choice

Gunnlodh sits           in her golden hall,
Turning her spindle,           settling her mind.
She thinks of Was           and Is and Will,
Knows what Need demands.

A draft of air,           a scent of dust -
A snake comes crawling           through the crack
And coils its length           about her limbs.
She welcomes him           with gentle words;
Tenderly,           she loves him long.

Carelessly,           the cocksure god
Stirs, and grins,           demands a gift -
The merest sip           of golden mead.
(The grateful girl           will surely grant it,
So well his smiles           conceal his greed.)

Bolverk empties           Son and Bodhn.
Heron's feathers           fold around him,
Smother him down           to endless dark;
His witless spirit           aimless wanders;
Mind is lost           and Memory flown.

Gunnlodh raises           Odhrerir
And pours a draught           of fire, of power
That floods his senses,           sets him free.
Ashamed, he sees           the shining goddess,
Knows his folly,           knows her grace.

On burnished wings,           an eagle bears
Her sacrifice           towards the sun.
Her heart is grey           with grief and wisdom.
The thread of Wyrd is wound.

©1999 by Ann Gróa Sheffield. All rights reserved.
First published in Lina, journal of Frigga's Web.