Somehow - the Voelva mused mysteriously
smiling and sensing what she really felt.
Her reddish-gray mane of locks was loosely
flowing down her back - but no one saw it
- only in her little hut - she lithely stretched
her long legs and her arms while feeling free
and seemingly young again although her age
was anything but a fountain of youthful skin.
She didn't care - she felt alive for probably
the last time of her life - an affair that had
begun about seven years ago - a fearless fling
of matching not souls - surely only bodies
craving a bit of fun - a hard run - buns raving
and he flaying about like youngish stripling
and she a vessel owning the jocular bottom
to meet in a joyful but thoughtless coupling
without a care or even a thought of future
- because there was not - mayhap that was why
it was just one of those things - like the bard
of the twentieth century had written - not
anything serious - only to pleasure one self
in the company of another - doppelgängers
a duality of bodies needing stroking and sex.
That was the secret garden of Vigga the Voelva
and she cherished it without crude culpability
standing -looking out of her window after
the storm flowing over her hok - streaming
rain and wild winds roaring after he had gone.
And she turned the lights out and went to bed.
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