At the Ford

A lonely stream there is, afar in a lone dim land:
    It hath white dust for shore it has, white bones bestrew the strand:
    The only thing that liveth there is a naked leaping sword;
    But I, who a seer am, have seen the whirling hand
                    Of the Washer of the Ford.

    A shadowy shape of cloud and mist, of gloom and night, she stands,
    The Washer of the Ford:
    She laughs, at times, and strews the dust through the hollow of her hands.
    She counts the sins of all men there, and slays the red-stained horde--
    The ghosts of all the sins of men must know the whirling sword
                   Of the Washer of the Ford.

    She stoops and laughs when in the dust she sees a writhing limb:
    "Go back into the ford," she says, "and hither and thither swim;
    Then I shall wash you white as snow, and shall take you by the hand,
    And slay you here in the silence with this my whirling brand,
    And trample you into the dust of this white windless sand "--
    This is the laughing word
                   Of the Washer of the Ford
                   Along that silent strand.

(Fiona MacLeod, «The Washer of the Ford», in «From the Hills of Dream: Mountain Songs and Island Runes», Edinburgh, Patrick Geddes & Colleagues, s.d.)

#Autumn