Hag of the Iron Wood
poem by Seawalker from Feeding The Flame
Her golden gaze is like a hawk’s,
Fierce over her cheekbones, one scarred
With the blade of battle, the other
Tattooed with tribal bonds. More colors
Crawl over her body, petroglyphs needled
Into her skin, yet refusing to stay in one place.
I watch, fascinated, as the figures march
Up her arm; I have lowered my eyes
From that fierce gaze. Her blood-colored hair
Hangs about her, tied with bones. A handsome woman,
You might say, in that way that people do
When there is little dainty or feminine
About the woman warrior, and what with scars
And callouses on her sword-hand,
You would not think that she could turn her head
And smile, lazily, in a certain way,
And you would suddenly desire her more
Than anything, than anyone, for that moment.
Not that she ever looks so at me, I am not
Such a recipient of her gaze, but I have seen it
And seen the longing faces of those she eyes so.
One forgets, with the sword and knives,
With the chief’s frown and the ragged
Wolfskins, that she knows as much about sex magic
As does the golden Vanadis in her garden.
And yet there is pain in her eyes, long wrinkles
Carve themselves across her forehead. She has seen
More death and loss than most, and held herself
Tall and proud throughout. Thrice burned to death,
Thrice arisen, her children torn from her,
Fighting is what she knows. From her first years
As a young chieftess to her current day, she fought.
Never surrender. Never stand down. This is her strength.
Bones rattle in her hair. Mother of Death,
Mother of Destruction, Mother of Liminality,
Mother Wolf who hunts for her cubs.
She is the stone blade, the scent of pine and leather,
The shaman’s circle marked out in tallow
And owl feathers, the old bloody mysteries
From days when folk hid hypervigilant in their caves.
She is the Lady of the Iron Wood, the keeper
Of the powers that bred the world’s destruction.
She is what she is, without apologies, without thought
As to what others might think of her. She simply is
What she has to be to survive the onslaught
Of the terrible wyrd of her only love.
Whatever it is that Life gives you, she says to me,
Do not let it take you down,
Until, at last, it takes you down.