Wyrd

A trio of pastel,
Wyrd Sisters three,
bend trinal
above the skyline trees

From that lofty perch
they greedily survey
a tabletop fit
for their mischief today

To cast stones of ice,
gelid canon shot,
or igneous splinters?
They can figure not

But that triad of Harpies
are not long stooped by
as Njordr cold brushes
those wraiths from the sky