Look: the weathered wood of the barque
rides the leaf-green sea.
Look again: the white foam streams in
the wind, mane of mares.
A chariot skims the grass-heads.
Birds fly silver-scaled.

Another mystery of the road
poured out from a bag of crane skin.

Speak false, and cracks splinter the cup,
the mead splashing out.
Speak true, and wounds heal in metal
and flesh, silver bells
sound on the branch, bringing laughter,
sleep, surcease from pain.

Another mystery of the cloak
he shakes between us and other.

With meadow grass, we pay the rent
to Fand’s beloved.
Yellow blossoms, a cask of ale
where the foam touches
the sandy shore, echoing cliffs
or the fall of mist.

Another mystery of the gray
at the joining of dusk and day.

Son of Lir, all land is your fabled
isle, all seas your sea,
the changing of light in the depths.
All is mystery.
Look and look again: flowers, fish, grass
What is and is not.


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