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~ By Courtesy of Others ~

 

Thor to Sif

Barely were you my bride
Still unused to baring yourself
The damp fertile winds after rain.
Strong hands on both of us, strong
Fingers intertwining, strength meeting strength
In joyous striving. No fear of breaking
In this troth, this mated meeting.

Bare were you, my bride,
The fine wheat gold of your hair
Lost, bereft, sheared away, stolen
As Loki kept his troth with his kin,
Returned to the Etins the magic of
An etin maid. And the tears of shame
Fell hot as rain scouring the earth,
Fell away, fell vengeful. Fields
Lay smoking in their stubble,
No shock remained for harvest Lady.

Barren were you, my bride? Never
While my armís cunning can enforce.
Sent again Loki to the dwarves to have wrought
What my strife alone could not create.
We longed for each other, yet remained apart,
Parted by unluck, holding, waiting
-- Lightnings ravaged the ungiving earth.
That winter was heated in fury.

Brandishing, my bride, the priestess
Put on her gold of power, gold hard wrought
That glittered, seething with soft waves of stemīs urge.
The fields rose up to the rain.
Mistress of my hall,
A wife is more beautiful than a bride.
And the seed-hills swell with wetting.

© Hilary Ayer

 

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