I hear the forge hammers ring out
Across the woodlands, waves loud
Languid and soft, branches shake
From the anvils beating on stone
To make these swords, so puzzling.
More of us have forth come to care for
This land of twisted trunks, poison
Oaks and devil willow barks black dry
From stored up curses let loose, spread
Round like witch’s brew jam, jelly fire.
We see the hidden ways of forest hoards,
Willing to change all from resignation
To the horrors done, hardly forgotten
Over the years seeming without end,
A force for the new, to this garden tend.
Howling at a gibbous moon so high, no
Silver now but golden shine foams through
Clouds clumped in the leaden skies, heroes
Recognised under these painted scenes realised,
A land to be new, newly made and freshly seen.
The work is begun, the group reined in,
A high world upon this plateau spreading
Far, far, far about, taking in all now
For a dream to be achieved, absolve this
Old ache of dead curses left to linger.
As if by the granting of a mad god’s boon
The scum of the waters is lessened, clear
Like the lakes were never muddied, sere
Moments of sunshine illume trunks less
Twisted than their as yet unblessed cousins.
We Wolf Lords wander