Where in the sunlit world do I find her?
In the pregnant orchard, globed with peaches,
Lit with green leaves?

In the Ocean shores?
They are loud with her footsteps.
Her amber tears wash up on the beaches
And folk go raking them.

In the beat of fire?
Oh no, where heat is, there is Freya.
Coaxing heady, full-lipped
Calling in beauty.

In the lilt of music?
But dancing calls me to her, the sway
And lovely fetching is all in her nature.

In the depths of magic?
She is its very mistress, holding hard
To the meaning she creates
By the strength of her will.

In prophecy?
The very act of asking
Carries her name, and her hope
Is all that allows me to ask.

In the scream of war?
No, she is there to choose.
And those she chooses come to glory,
Reunified with love.

Am I fool enough to wish to avoid her?
Many deeds have I not been proud of,
But that, no.
I have let her make me a fool
And gladly been fooled, foolish,
Dancing to her pride.
Proud of my foolery.

Does she call?
I go hunting still.
Where her sweet lips bid,
Proud follower
Of her luring footsteps.

© Hilary Ayer