Wednesday, 25 November 2009

The Scrying Bowl

Come closer.
This black water in a silver bowl
is a black and silver lake.
Here reflected trees distort.
The black bird flies
from branch to branch.
Here your face appears,
framed by branches,
rising to you:
black eyes, black mouth.

Deep within this mirror,
the faces of your future, of yourself:
the moon becomes the bull
becomes the child
you will never know.
Her face is your face,
her hands are yours:
the self-same fingers
strain towards you
as you reach down.

Four hands touch the surface,
breaking it. You pull away,
leaving only ripples.

This poem first appeared in Agenda's online suppliment.

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