On a wintry hill, she stands,
Where waves of fire lap the snow.
Grinding her heel in the fire-soft mud,
Rivers rise from the cold snow source,
While deep within the sleeping earth,
Seeds stir, swelling in the sappy spring scents.
She raises an arm, steel bright,
Sword flashing, fiery defender,
With healing in her slender fingers.
The wind fans the flames that tangle her hair,
Breathes her name, winter fire over the snowy plain,
To fashion it on a thousand tongues,
And the reeds on the lake whisper the song she sings,
The song of the earth as it was,
As it is,
And as it always will be.
Jane Dougherty is a writer of fantasy, retellings of old stories, Norse and Irish, and poetry. She has had a number of poems and short stories published, and has self-published novels and stories. She lives in the south but her heart is in the north. Jane’s blog contains all you could possibly want to know about her: https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/