Mystical Tides

Poetry, short stories revealing mystical inner emotions flowing through our veins - then cascading over the oceans of our time and spaces. WINTER'S GHOST Autumn moon incautious in the dark river Winter's ghost walks with a covered face and silver bones wait in all animals to be bone cloth upon her shoulder wait for her happiness in that they are silver AN ANCIENT SUN Drink in the heat of an ancient sun held in the cold fire of water rising from earth and rock Spilling over your cupped hands and drawn to lips and tongue Pouring water's memory of the azure mist it fell from into the chalice of your flesh Turning your eyes skywards with desire for the freedom it was born of THE ORACLE'S MIRROR The oracle's mirror waiting for the Earth to unveil her The wolf's howl over snow The quiet place inside you - the vast knowing of the soul DREAMS ARE LIKE THE OLD STORIES Dreams are like the old stories where wolves are seekers always running, and women carry fire in their bare hands and light the dark paths before them. Old stories hold that the birds will fly all the miles of the world to tell your secrets to the rising moon, and men will walk over oceans of ice to find one truth. THE FIRES OF NIGHT The fires of night through distance dance ghosts who still know how to sing MY BEST GARMENTS WERE MADE OF ICE My best garments were made of ice falling in translucent snowdrifts - encase the evidence of years attempt to preservation But cannot cease the Earth that flows in liquid demolition Glistening ice that breaks on the greater movement and the continents shift and the change is all consuming and the fire rivers reform and the form itself does own no garments timeless SELKIE Alone, the cold body of the selkie man lay upon the sand, so like the drowned one the widow had called for. For her longing, he was hauled upon the sand, exposed to the moonlight. The selkie strained in fraught movements and human form broke from the gleaming seal fur. Undeniably he bore the image of the widow's lost husband and spoke with the sounds of the dead man's voice. She hailed back from the rocks. Shadows accumulating beyond the moon's ability to reform. Colours were washed from sight and silver crashed through her, colder than snow dreams of being. In the dark, the ocean became the rolling flanks of a great beast drifting back across the horizon. Out deep soon, the land's drop sharp.