Forgotten Ground Regained
Warriors
Originally published in Withowinde 208 p. 38, Winter, 2023
My father fought for lord and family.He fell on a field of frenzy and madness,blade notched by blows, broken he layand moved no more, mud-drenched, alone.
That mangled man they brought to my mother,blood-soaked and beaten from the battlefield,all laughter fled and limbs asunderunmoving, unliving, unbreathing:His sword they found shattered in the slaughter.Weeping she blamed the warriors, war besotted.
I grew older and Oslaf found me.I had children and chased some dreamsby the bright firelight, in the bright sunlight, in his broad arms;but swordsmen and spearmen were needed again, shield carriers summoned.Oslaf followed as a fighter should, but foremost he was a farmer,his blade the scythe to behead the barleynot shear a helmet, slice a belly, smash another man.He fell in some field far from family and from home.
They brought his body back; the bairns looked on,not knowing their father, not knowing their motherwho lamented her lost lover and longed for him,her hair bound in braids as she circled the balefire.
Our sons grew tall, tilled the fieldsuntil war returned and whisked them awaylike a wave washing the shore.No trace left, just tears and terror,no bodies were found to bring back that day.Nightmares came but no one was there to comfort me.
I dream now of days when my dad raised me high,or Oslaf’s arms enfolded me urgently,or fragile fists held my fingers fast.
Men can’t say with any suretywhere the soul goes on its last setting forth.,where the spirit sleeps at last.They will bring my bones to burn at sunrise,smoke and soul all snaking upwards,lifted heavenwards where my loved ones are waiting.
Copyright © Phyllis Wicks, 2023
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