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.