A Rich Witch Over Kebnekaise Poem by Tor Magnor Solvang

A witch of wealth, with silver hair,
Grew tired of brooms beyond repair.
The Bloksberg meet, a distant call,
Demanded speed, beyond them all.

She traded twigs for gleaming steel,
An electric broom, a thrilling feel.
'To Bloksberg straight, ' the salesman vowed,
'No need to stop, among the cloud! '

She soared above, the world below,
Past Kebnekaise, capped with snow.
But up so high, the air grew keen,
A biting frost, a winter scene.

A squeak, a cough, a slowing drone,
The magic broom let out a moan.
The battery drained, its power lost,
A silent fall, a heavy cost.

She tumbled down, a snowy plight,
Into the drifts, a starless night.
Lost on the slopes, so cold and deep,
Where secrets ancient mountains keep.

Long years have passed, the snows still fall,
No witch is seen, answering the call.
Just whispers echo on the breeze,
Of a broomstick lost, among no trees.

And tales are told, in hushed delight,
Of one who vanished in the night.
A lonely witch, and journey's end,
Where snowy mountains never bend.

T.M.Solvang