The Thread Upon the Loom, V

V.

My eyes were opened then and, glancing round,
No longer saw the sexton on the hill.
“Was all a dream?” I wondered there alone;
In haste I scratched away the grass beneath
The tree, until my fingers scraped on stone—
My finger rested on a carvéd knot;
A cord revealed then, deeply plunging in,
Was lost among the others intertwined.
The ends were hidden, both of mine and each
It intersects, yet formed the fabric which
The rest was carved upon. “It is not mine
To know the end of each,” I pondered then.
My eyes strayed to the speech set down in runes--
"Come death and Hel, or else…” I murmured soft.
The waning sun cast dancing shadows on
The runestone, seeming to awaken men
To war, who slumbered centuries asleep.
I stood, gazed down the hill upon the dead
Within the quiet churchyard sleeping still.
With dusk approaching, terror seized me at
The thought of walking through the graves alone—
But still the sun shone bright upon my face,
And if it set, would yet arise again.
“Come death and Hel, or else—“ My mind was set.
I strode down from the hill and through the graves,
And westward walked unto the setting sun.