In a meandering land of mystic moons,
At the waystation
Between the worlds — unremembered, translucent,
Walking, not yet understanding,
Beyond the shifting sand dunes.
At the crossroads by the river
Of fish glimmering, shimmering,
In a sliver
Of moonlight
Waits a boat of mist,
In a time that is no
Time,
In a place that is no place,
We walk before the dawn
In a land of gentle grace,
In a land of stars and mist,
As we climb a tilted rise,
There ahead a mountain looms alone,
Home of fir trees, of summer’s moss,
And winter’s cold,
Of crystal stone,
Eclipsed in silver wings of snow
Of thrice-weathered rocks,
Of beings old
Older than the earth – from long before,
Of grandfathers that go along on a bent cane,
In the time that never was – sure-footed, wise,
Beyond a fog-inducing year
Of history
Come unpinned,
In a land that will wait,
Just past the wooden post of the gate,
There, where an angel’s footstep shone
On the dark
Valley floor – benevolent,
And be waiting, for the dawn that breaks,
Transcendent,
For the golden eagles to lift into the clear sun,
Once more,
Into the deep blue,
To fly,
To cry,
To lift their sky-
Engulfing intent
In awakening days
Of lakes
And the white, waving wildflowers,
The rose-enchanted nettles,
That sing songs of ancient powers
In the cool wind
Anew,
Where Kamakshi,
The black, opalescent one, ringed in every mystery,
She who is mother of the forest,
Of springing deer
And sparkling fawn,
Of flocks of horned lark,
Of the long-billed curlew
Who tiptoes across
The water’s edge then turns to glance
Again at the light-calling pinion jays,
While Kamakshi gathers up her winged petals
Of joy – anew,
Now to dance
In the bright-
Singing rain.
By Sharon St Joan
© Sharon St Joan, 2020