Gather the crowberries for the windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we gather together
a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us ;
warm breath at our napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for a moment the wind resides.
Dec 11, 2015
Dec 11, 2015 at 11:21 AM UTC
Gather the crowberries for the windfeast.
Adorning our cheeks with ochre
we gather together
a throne of old rowan.
The staggards behind us ;
warm breath at our napes.
We are as careful as a circle.
So a keening for the wild flightsman,
the hewer of stone, blood-iron hearted,
now dead as a distant star
that points the way of smoke, of fire.
But for a moment the wind resides.