Three Sisters Of Noroway (Folk Tale) Poem by Mervyn Graham

Once, in Norroway's ancient land,
Three sisters dwelled, their fate in hand.
The eldest spoke, her voice resolute,
'Bake me a bannock, prepare a collop to boot,
For fortune calls, and I must commute.'

Off she went, to the witch's door,
Advice in mind, her spirit soared.
Two days passed, with nothing to see,
But on the third, a coach came free.
'Yon's for you, ' said the witch with glee.

The middle sister followed suit,
To the witch's cottage, she did scoot.
A coach-and-four, her chariot awaited,
Her path to fortune, unabated.

The youngest, trembling with dread,
Took her turn, her heart full of lead.
A monstrous bull, her journey's steed,
Filling her with worry and need.

With food from his ear, drink from his right,
They journeyed on through day and night.
Till they reached a castle grand and fair,
The bull's brother's home, awaiting her there.

Gifts bestowed, secrets to keep,
An apple, a pear, a plum so deep.
Each with a message, a warning to heed,
For direst straits, in time of need.

To a glen of darkness, they made their way,
The bull to fight, the girl to stay.
But overcome by joy, she shifted her seat,
Lost to the bull, her fate complete.

Weeping and wandering, she found her plight,
A hill of glass, gleaming in the light.
Seven years with the smith, she served with care,
For iron shoes, her burden to bear.

Across the hill, her journey led,
To the washerwoman's home, her heart's dread.
A gallant knight, now in human form,
Unknowing of their shared storm.

The stain removed, by her gentle hand,
But her heart ached, unable to withstand.
As the washerwoman's daughter claimed her prize,
She bargained with tears in her eyes.

Jewels and gold, she offered in plea,
For one more night, her love to see.
But schemes and drafts, kept them apart,
Till fate intervened, to restart.

With plum in hand, her last appeal,
To awaken love, her heart's zeal.
Seven years of trials, for love's decree,
Finally reunited, hearts set free.

‘Seven long years I served for thee,
The glassy hill I clomb for thee,
Thy bloody clothes I wrang for thee;
And wilt thou not waken and turn to me? '

In her voice, his memories stirred,
Love's flame rekindled, undeterred.
Their past trials, now behind,
In wedded bliss, hearts entwined.

Their love triumphant, their past erased,
The washerwoman's schemes, since defaced.
Happily ever after, they lived in bliss,
A tale of love, sealed with a kiss.

Mervyn Graham (cc 2024)