sublimity, part i (2.9)*

oases of the sublime no longer swell.

but contract with each man wrought knell.

oozing landscapes are everywhere scarred,

not an hint of midgard remains unmarred.

brokkr’s smithy: long ash, glacially cold

conjures nothing artful on the barren wold.

it was past arctic ice, but become cataract,

ripping new wounds: deep, pained, inexact.

she paddled her way here, long upstream,

ignorant of her presence in the living dream

so her misstep could surely be forgiven

as she slip-tripped into the wound freshly riven.

bare feet: one, two, splashing into current;

gushing ice water: her skin cold burnt

staggering up, fighting the slip-fall down,

she willed herself upon that mossy crown.

she cries to fjörgyn, begging for ease

and – whispering succour – answers the breeze.

*another draft