It’s a poem I wrote, belonging to a couple of warriors in my book. They’ve just survived something horrible, and the anger and hatred which drove them to survive it–those emotions are giving way to a secondary primal emotion (if you will allow). The older warrior recalls a poem he learned as a younger man, introducing it to the younger with this sentence:
“It starts as a riddle, and then,” he paused for a moment, “it blossoms.”
I think it scans well. I hope you enjoy it.
Who is she?
She rises in the east to rouse the sun
She prises from the bed to house her son
Herself and all her own.
A master with a lord
The lord who prostrate falls
whose steadfast will is one that stands
To disappear beneath the sands
Which softens then recalls
The sun in darkness hiding.
Nine months tides she calls the biding
The softened will is growing bright
And she changes with the sun in sight
A fruited flower softened.
She gives a son
A son of the will of the lord
whose steadfast falling is a ford
Across the ocean’s tides
To the east beyond the sun
Where she rises and rouses
And she prises and houses
Her husband and her son