Three Sevenlings


There is a tavern in the town,
a church, and a general store.
Come midnight, Main Street is dark.

She walks along the churchyard wall,
stops, makes the sign hastily, three times,
opens the lychgate and enters.

Unseen behind the yew, hungry eyes wait.


How I miss the lost wildlife of Yalta!
The azure turkey, the Byzantine oriole,
the brash peregrine-crested ptarmigan.

I pick up an errant feather, a vague
recording of someone’s mating call,
a tiny time-silvered shard of bone.

Spools for yarns Grandma used to spin.

The Monitoring Agent

The Snow Maiden enters the stage
wearing a mask with three eyeholes.
Audiences are easily diverted by such.

After the show, when the hall is empty,
she ripples whitely into her dressing-room,
carrying a silver rose and two lucky coins.

She peels off her mask, writes a letter.

Jane Røken

If you have any comments on these poems, Jane Røken would be pleased to hear from you.