A MAKESHIFT CHARM AGAINST WITCHES
The elf-witches are watching me
from glittering trees, their gleaming eyes
like bright-burnished knives or burning stars,
those long fingers foully working
to weave deceit with slender distaffs
and nets to catch their quarry with.
In Dwimordene, their dark webbing
strangles champions and children both,
mercilessly. I long for home
as I creep beneath boughs of blooming gold
searching for a Cempa—or his corpse, maybe.
In the golden gloom, there is no gladness left
for shaken men. So shamefully,
I think of the life I left behind me—
I am suddenly afraid to be felled in this place
so far from home. My heart bleeding,
I long for the touch of my lost woman,
or for the bitter kiss of a bold warrior,
or for Dagred’s voice providing praise
and affectionate words, or for Frideswith
to love me anew, or for my nephew brave
and my gentle son to journey home
from the earth’s keeping. But a coward I am not—
so I march into the gloom geared for battle,
proud and manful and completely alone.
