The Old Queen And The New
by Andrew Gyll
In Jormungrund
the only sounds
are weeping rain
and the wind moaning
across the fells.
Almost unnoticed,
the old Queen is gone.
Her throne sits empty,
the iron gates are closed,
the dead are banished
to nest in trees,
to huddle in hollows
and shadowed pools,
to wander the worlds
and bathe in the meanders
of muddy streams.
Impossibly quiet,
yet not quite silent
they chitter in the damp,
dark corners of awareness.
They haunt creation.
Almost unnoticed,
the old queen is gone,
but the sound of her absence
grows louder.
*
I saw the child labour
across the snowfield,
limping, head bowed
into the relentless wind.
She muttered and
I thought her mad
till I saw the shifting forms
of death about her.
Hela! Hela! Hela!
they called.
Through ice-scarred lips
her reply grated.
Show me the way to the Iron Gates!
Ahead they leapt
through gust and flurry.
Queen! Queen! Queen!
Long the road is
and hard, so hard,
across nine chill days,
down nine dark nights.
Will you come,
will you open the Gates again?
I will come!
Every broken step
will I tread,
every pain endure.
For me, and me alone
the Gates will open.
