The Norns
by Andrew Gyll
In the narrow crook
of a twisted root
Grandmother Spider sits
spinning, shaping,
twisting ragged time;
her dreams
are warp and weft,
her memories
a warm birth
in the languid,
sacred land
where ice and fire
steamed existence
into being.
Mother weaves;
entranced by process
and potentialities,
she peers along
diminishing lines
of fate.
Daughter clambers
through the tangles,
tugs them apart,
slips through the gaps,
shears in hand;
she cuts and catches
the loose end,
ties off a knot,
moves on.
These women
require nothing,
fear nothing,
no one-eyed man,
no flame-haired wanderer,
no completions.
Endings are the currents
through which they swim.