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I threw them ..




.. waited ..




..  and watched.


The water bulged.


Subtle, soft,
rippling creases
in Manannán mac Lir’s forge.

An uisce — Scotch
coalescent Irish Moss.

That only sea and river
Gods
could in thoughts divulge
through incantation’s
soak of aquatic creatures.

Then, out of
the swell’s depths
a Selkie leapt
over a Merrow
like a silver birch
long slept
somersaulted
by a sparrow
where wet
secrets are kept
under the lid
of mine eyes
and those on
the faced design
of my stone-
made pebble
that became
their coin arrow.

For there is
mystic magic
in spirit dreams
of the uisce.

And, so, I fathom ..

.. that each wish
that we cast
from the rock
to the coffer
only bears fruit
at steeped last ..



.. under the water.


© poormansdreams

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