The waiting

She was incessantly sad, the Vølva Vigga,
it had been nine mournful moons
since she had lost her granny's knife -
the one carrying the name Grosswolf -
to her ruthless rigidly relentless rapist,
sitting at her cherished spot near Yddgrasil
the little tree she planted and wetted
with tears and moonlit dewdrops.
It had grown vigorously into a sycamore,
one that she could find shade under,
so she could feel close to its roots.
It had pruned itself into half an ash,
so she felt even more whole resting there.
Just like its precious predecessor
the ash willed its roots to find water
underneath the underworld of dirt,
a fairly fey woodland with toadstools
and unfathomable odd spry seedlings.
This ash and her calm surroundings
could not have stopped the wrought villainy
neither could the villagers close by.
The Vølva Vigga had sat most afternoons
near the yearning Ygdrasil - daydreaming.
Her abortion had not metamorphosed her
into her confident constant courageous self.
Only the sweet phenomenon called time
would timely heal her and her revenge.
Vigga the Vølva wondered why she needed
to be near the damned deed's place,
but it was also the spot she literally loved.
Ygdrasil, because it had transfigured itself
she understood that she needed to do that too.
She was almost there, ready to repossess
her wielding weapon - her grandmother's knife.
Right after her rape she had sent out scouts
of a special kind, the elves who had promised,
to repay her lasting loyalty and right the wrong
that one of their tribe a wrought another Vølva,
her grandmother at Tintagel - a long time away -
and not long ago in their own buoyant backyard.
She was waiting for their scouting results.
Spring tide was almost here and spout time
and with that assurance of rightful wrath
her strength coming back with vivid vengeance.