There is a Gallic story told old go,
told when old ago was not so old.
It is about the Whitening Woman,
the Territorial Queen
the everlasting Beauty whose lips conferred
the summerhaven dream.
It tells of how she went wood walking
early one ancient day
and when she came upon a clearing
where a lonely man lived, tilling his fields;
and how he looked mighty fine to her
where he worked to the terracing,
stripped in the sunning to the waist,
his bronze back rippling with
muscle hammocks moving
like living rings of snakes.
And the lady who then emerges
from out inside her mystery thicket,
walking to where the man had cows,
speaking no words,
but only pulling on the udders
until she makes the milk cows mild.
Then how she shapes shelter sides
and rounding the rough house boards,
performing the straightening,
and generally working through the day,
helping the man whose echo she heard
inside her own quilted body sense,
until it was time to lead him to her,
until time came for loving in the straw,
just the feeling and the flood,
the touch of two in yellow straw.
Then she who leads her farmer to prosper,
leading him by the hand,
leading the land to black fertility
while she herself the Whitening Woman
made big with twins in her belly.
And it’s how they kept together,
fitting that well around each other,
and how they combed through the timely tale
of two planetary lovers.
Or until there came the day the news
of a new year’s festival day,
with the farmer summoned by the king,
called upon, since,
the region of the king would be renewed
by the Up-From-Under-Mothers.
And how he who will now celebrate
the lease on life granted him.
And so there coming the day set for
the gaming, the bard words, and the drink,
with the farmer man ready to leave
and his Lady who wishes he would stay, since,
she says he will want to boast of her
and this would not be best.
But still the landholder feeling certain, sure,
he can rub against the hero company
and never telling the tales of her.
And so he goes.
With the morning comes the noon
and with the sun bulging at its brightest
there come the hero games when the king
must bring the chariot with two horses,
saying no one can run faster than they.
And when the farmer must boast of his Lady
as finally having recognized
the silver threads of Sovereignty,
while saying she can win any race run.
And when the farmer must be tied
so told he will die
unless his Lady does outrun the sun.
Then the king’s men sent to summons her
and she being told her lover’s life is lost
if she does not lead the solar horses.
But being as carefully near as she is
to the fullness of her term
she naturally asks for small mercy,
with it not near enough for messengers to give her.
And her farmer man, in addition they say,
who will soon see the shallow grave
of an only man’s death.
So then the Lady goes to the games
and once gin asking, now of the assembled,
to be shown a margin of mercy.
But still those heroes who cannot hear her.
And she who races in the outside rim
outrunning the solar twins,
while reaching to the finish line
and just in time
to birth the pair of holy hills
in hard pain, in kneeling labor,
while still the heroes gathered,
the king’s company looks on.
And maybe she’s through with men by then,
the Whitening Woman who once loved a farmer,
since, when she slowly stands in her afterbirth
she tells of what is in store for them.
She only saying, “Such indifferent heroes
deserve to feel the pangs of birth,
and so you will whenever the region
is pressed in deepest danger,
and fully for five days, incapacitated,
with the bending pains of kneeling labor.”
And after plainly saying what she feels
the Whitening Woman turns away
and wraps herself inside her cloak,
with no one telling if she looks a last time
down the twilight tide towards her lover,
she who hides in breasty hillsides.
And it’s just an old story told old ago
when fields kept to smaller clearings
and trees spread in wider groves.
Mostly forgotten except in books,
mostly forgotten except for near events.
And how about that simple farmer?
Still lonely, likely, and no wiser.
Last edited by Terreson, Jun/18/2021, 5:16 pm
Jun/18/2021, 5:15 pm
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Re: Twin Hills
beauty brought forth from ancestral wilds,
crepuscule of wisdom
timescape to imbibe, slowly, with pleasure
Jun/20/2021, 3:18 pm
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