Glad of War in Spring
by A. E. Coleman
A cock perched between the eyes of an eagle
crows as the Sky Traveler buries his speech
between Freya’s thighs. He grips her hips.
She grips his wrists as forked red hair
moves like wildfire, devouring that amber
patch of Folkvang between a pair of pale cliffs.
Behind her, hair spreads across the bed
in tangled honey veins of sap that rise
with the spring up through the long trunk
of Yggdrasil. In its wood hides the shape
of First Man, back strong and arms lifted
in branches that reach for the sun’s blazing
wheel while sweat-stained leaves tremble
in the winds of heavy breathing.
Woodland sunflowers bud and bloom
at the base in a merry frenzy of dew damp
yellows while beneath them Earth wraps
around the World Tree’s thighs as it plunges
three roots deep into Creation, Wisdom
and Hel. Grey-hooded Norns dance
with albescent arms bare as they shuttle
the diaphanous weft of each man’s wyrð
ever forward, ever deeper, unstopping
into that still masked darkness beyond
all objection, fear, and bargain, ruthlessly
following the weighted warp of what may yet be.
Author: A. E. Coleman
Instructor of Creative Writing