THE BOG DWERCH

THE BOG DWERCH

By Kat Clements

 

White wyrms lick with flaming tongues

The iron as it glows.

Red-hot, the metal dragon’s roars

Are lost beneath my blows.

 

Between the strikes I hear a call:

An unknown human voice.

Few dare tread the bog this far;

Most do not by choice.

 

With a sigh, I pause my work,

And stride out to the gate.

I watch the boat pull into dock.

I cross my arms and wait.

 

Towards me trots a gangly lad

With carrot-colored hair.

Beside him glides a fae old man

With magic in his stare.

 

Behind them comes a priest-man

In a mud-splattered cowl,

He scurries up towards me,

And I fix him with a scowl.

 

I have no need for church choirs;

The only toll I heed

Is the belling of my hammer

And the singing of the reed.

 

The new god has no place here,

His hang’d corpse does reek.

I start to send them all away…

The priest begins to speak.

 

“We come to see the sword-smith

Who lives within this glade.

We need his skill and knowledge

To craft a blessed blade.”

 

“I am that smith,” I rumble,

Savoring his astonished stare;

No man ever expects to see

A woman standing there.

 

“I need a sword,” the lad pipes up,

“That will in battle sing.
It must be light and strong and true

For soon I will be king.”

 

Such proclamation makes me laugh

So hard it shakes the ground,

But stop and glare with eyes aflame

At the old fae man’s frown.

 

“For years I forged under the Hill

‘Til I came to understand

The blood that sprayed from each fell blow…

It also stained my hand.

 

“You may a kingdom win this way,

And hold it for a time,

But all that death exacts a price,

And this, dear prince, is mine:

 

“Seek not the precious holy cup;

It lies within no land.

The priestly words of Hanged God’s men

Are but a fool’s errand.”

 

Reluctantly, I acquiesce,

And grab a pig of ore.

Against my better judgment,

A sword I’ll forge once more.

 

The sparks, they fly! The anvil rings!

My soul, it feels alive

To do that which I’m meant to do

And not just to survive.

 

I never see the lad again,

Nor the old man or priest,

The days, they turn, and turn again…

Fate is a fickle beast.

 

My forge has long been dark

And no more swords I make,

Yet on I live in legends

As the Lady of the Lake.

 

Cover Photo by Pexels Free Photos

Original Poetry