Finding Freya

She was there all along,

lying half cut under the bushes

broken beer bottle at her head,

damp and dishevelled.

She'd partied hard that night.

The boys had come

with their leather jackets

and home brew

to watch the sun set

and sit between

the Hornbeam trees

getting wrecked.

Freya rocked up

with her girl gang.

She wanted some

of what they had

in their nut brown

bottles.

Golden elixir of life

lighting her fire,

she started to dance,

a snake skin

dance that only

she had the balls

to do in front

of men.

They fell silent,

their dark eyes

moonstruck

on her twisting

hips and thighs.

Her jewelry flashing

hypnotic rings of labradorite,

ruby, gold and tigers eye.

Someone started drumming;

the beat grew faster,

as Thor's breath

swayed the upper branches

of the trees

where the Horned God lived.

Faster and faster

she spun,

they were cheering her now.

The wolf warrior had the longest,

hardest whistle of them all.

He wanted her so badly;

would she chose him?

He pressed the amulet in

his jacket pocket so hard

his finger bled.

Sensing his pain

Freya stood astride

him as he sat back

against the bark.

Crookeying down she

pulled his bloody finger

and smeared it

on her forehead

You're mine now

for this one night.

All mine.

The others drifted

off into the bushes

laughing, beer sodden

and blazing.

They were alone

between the Hornbeams

the moon casting

cold beams

on their white-hot flesh.

The Otherworld came

through quickly

as they crossed

the rainbow bridge

at that crucial moment.

Thirteen minutes turned into

thirteen hours

turned into thirteen years.

Her body still bore

the lightning scars

of his touch

that seered right down

her bone left side.

The oaks grew up around her.

She couldn't move,

the home brew

was paralysingly good.

She dreamed the same

dream every night:

the broken glass bottles

the same beating drum

the same snake skin shedding,

Thor's breath kissing her back,

the lightning strike.

Boom.

She was there all along.

I found her,

prostrate on her back

in the bushes,

legs still parted.

I cut away the rotten

wood, tidied her up

and gave her a good wash

of well water

that the Norns had left

in the roots of the Hornbeam.

She's drying out now,

in the boot

of my white tiger tank.

One almighty hangover

to surface from.

So much life left to live.

She's going to have

fresh jewels

and has stolen

his leather jacket.

He's long gone now,

that wolf warrior.

and she's wearing a new skin,

the girl gang have her back

this time.

Freya will outlive them all.

SCM2018

August