Fika of Fate

Beneath the Wide-Root, in weaving-shade,

the sisters of wyrd take their seat.

No thread do they thrash,

no wool do they wind,

while the bramble-biter burns low;

a peace-time is called in the shade of ash,

for the Fika of Fate has begun.

The Iron-Pot whistles on embers of oak,

wake-water bubbles within.

From the silver-steamer, the bean-blood flows,

dark as the Great-Void’s heart;

the steam-scent rises to Yggdrasil’s roof,

warming the web-weavers’ hands.

One sister sips slow,

one tastes the sweet crumb,

the third watches smoke-rings rise.

Though the Sun-chaser runs and the Sky-rim shall fall,

the black-broth is bold in the cup.

Better a hot-mug in the hand of a friend,

than a kingdom of gold without kin.