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Eir Poetic from: Villanelle
It's never easy, starting up that hill.
High Desert sun burns fierce, no shade, no tree.
But one stands on the peak, awaits you still.
A flailing hand gets stabbed by cactus quills,
an ankle twisted, slipping on loose scree.
It's never easy, starting up that hill.
The ridgeline crags are sharp and sheer; they fill
your heart with fear of slipping, falling free.
But one atop those crags awaits you still.
The sun's heat stalks you, closes for the kill;
to gasp at fevered air brings misery.
It's never easy, climbing up that hill.
But scramble up the slopes, climb with a will,
though sweat drips in your eyes till you can't see,
for one stands on the peak, awaiting, still.
The ringing in your ears whines loud and shrill,
head spins and stomach heaves like endless sea.
It's never easy, climbing up that hill.
Yet from the mountain's foot there flows a rill:
a spring pours out its answer to your plea,
while she atop the peak awaits you still.
Above that distant snowline, winds blow chill,
but bend your back and press on patiently.
Though it's not easy climbing up that hill --
she dwells on Lyfjaberg, awaits you still.
© Ben Waggoner
Ben Waggoner has translated numerous Old Norse Sagas.
His books on Lulu.