Spell of Binding

Baking bread on the fire outside our wooden hut, watching the water swirl in the river below, I consider the pasture where deer pass on migration to their birthing lands, and the mountains so far, so distant, wondering where your horse will take you, wondering when you will return. 
You made that promise, tying a string around my finger, a string that's now grey and loose, fraying. In my blood I know you will come back to me, and, taking a stone carved with the proverbs of our life, of things we have done, and things yet to be done, went barefoot down the riverside and cast it into the water, amongst the sticklebacks and the mayflies. 
Water holds our destiny, carrying the words in the scales of fish, to other places, far from sight, where something wonderful is hidden beyond the horizon of possibilities.
I see your reflection, distorted in the ripples. Why do you wear a crown of golden leaves, and why did you frown so, when you tied the string of a promise around my finger?  
I stir the water with my foot and cast a spell of binding, of firmament, of breaking bread and blood.

Blood of thee, be mine
Blood of me, be thine
In the joining of this, our ancient spirit
In the passing of time
There is new light
Shinning through the darkness
When you bid
'Come to me'
I come
When you bid
'Go from me'
I will go
Let the blood rise
Anew in this day's dawn
Where the spirits ask
Where does your horse take you?
Where does this word guide you?
What calls upon the wind to be heard?
Nothing
nothing
save a bird.