by Nick Gisburne
The dagger bones were wrestled from a man.
Her gauntlets, steel, are studded with his teeth.
A painted shield, the colours of her clan,
Protects the body sheltering beneath.
She walks without it, walking without fear,
Where once she would have never dared to go.
Her eyes have seen no ordinary year.
Tonight they look for vengeance in the snow.
A dozen drifters, raiders from the hills,
The left-behinds, the laggards, boastful, bold,
Give drunken speeches, stories of their kills,
And huddle round a campfire, in the cold.
She bleeds them, slowly, even those who run,
And dedicates their screaming to her son.
