Freya of the Fields of Lavender
O Freya of the fields of lavender
meet of my mouth and miracle worker
of fragrant flower-lands where falcons roam,
forlorn folksinger of far-away eyes
whose knotted hair knows the gnarled ways of soul,
come kiss your crazed man's lips
and lift with love the languishing spirit
healing all the horror, holding with eyes
that know the now-distant pain as none else do.
Suffered with my soul, your spirit flew
out upon the open ocean breezes
wild with weariness, withered Ophelia-tears
running from the roaring rampage
of monsters' malice and Gullveig's malefice.
Oh, I know that you know, know your deep heart
deeper than depths of dread or anguish
deeper than the doors of death itself
fertile as the fields of lavender flowers
which sway in the swishing swell of wind
gives heal, from that holy mountain of herbs
high in the heavens, where home is yours.
Your kiss can carry the blessed cup
of soothing salve that saves the heart
from laying long in the lair of thieves ;
for your hands, holy, held me once
held me whole, heard my anguish,
danced and drank so deep with me.
Your hair has held every hue of the flowers
that ripen in the regal, rolling meadows,
for thine, for thine, for thine, O woman wondrous,
is love and lyric of love forever.
In many masks you make yourself known,
seeking me, seeking me, seeking soul.
Come through kisses, come through rich,
deep wine of the wildflowers, which you brew
in love and service with Sif, my kinsman,
that brewer whose brow is barley-bright.
Love, your look of love, whose gaze grants wish,
needs your knight, now, and hereafter.