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Stormbringer
Kyle Hemmings © 2007

I hath waited for the sonne to rise oer the gorge
to speke the name of mi little girl, Ailith,
that she hath come home and was safe.
The sonne did not speke;
I hath waited for the West Wynde, Zephirus,
to blow a message from the ferne forest of Wigven ,
the dense and darke greene tunnel of holt
and little heath, that my little girl would return.
Nay, fore two days and a niht of tossing,
needles pricking, percing mi skin,
mi little faire Sirona--Ailith--
did not return from the forest.

I prayed to the god, Ziw, to keep her safe
and I would go the lengthe of killing
any manne who did touche her.
For my name is Eadmund,
protector of the valley of Wone .
I am a peaceful manne and I mean no harm
on any mortal. But for Ailtih . . .
with hire longe flaxen hair . . .
hire strawe basket of flowers
she'd pick from the forest floor.
I'd told her never to goon too deep
into that forest,
for Waermund the Stormbringer lurks there,
that halfe-monstyr, halfe-manne,
preying on innocents swich as herself.

I trekked for miles with nare
a sheepskin coate and cowskin bootes
to keepe mi skinne warme. I trudged past
the mountains of Shirloc whose pointes
could touch the basket of Eostre
so high in the skye, the goddess's neste
of hares and eggs. Would that she not grant
mi daughter's life. I sat and rested
by the River Neoro,
listened to its crackle and sorg,
listened to it forming the words
"Ailith is no more. She is but a cloud."
I wept into the river, into mi reflection.
I saw mi daughter's eyes rising to the surface,
her face, wavering as in a dream, then, vanishing.

Bio

Kyle Hemmings recently completed his MFA degree and loves to cook, bake, and burn whatever he cooks or bakes. He lives and works in New Jersey .