The skiff is still
Not even a whisper of a breeze chases across the high water
To disturb it’s calm.
If there were a whisper it would surely not be the sound of air or water,
But of emanations, vibrations, oozing up from somewhere
Deep and dark.
The boatman stands within the small circle of his skiff,
And raising his walnut hard forearm with the power of his calling
Releases what lies hidden.
Across the silver, the gold and red, the stippled colours come racing.
Dancing themselves to life.
A throng of blue as of kingfishers in convoy flight, lift her high as she takes his proffered hand and calls to him through tears of joy.
‘Watch me, watch me!’
And she dances on the river of Light as though it it was always firm
beneath those twirling, steps,
always the first dance, always the last.
Stories, beginnings and endings.
And only for a moment does she pause
When the colours change and like every heroine ever spoken of,
She is off into the River of Light and her open oceanic home.