spell of waiting

The Ferryman brushes the wet hair from my face, my eyes; I am soaked by the mist, heavy with wet, blinded. His hands find me out. I am raked open by his kindness. All that is heavy, the physical limitations, fall away. I am a pillar of light, a flame.

I stand in the boat. The boat is midstream. We are surrounded by fog. The Ferryman poles slowly. All there is is the small kiss of wave against the boat, the stuttered joy of the drips that fall when he swings his pole forward, the smell of waiting.

Below the grey surface I see the shimmering of the River King. Is it my light that catches on his scales and calls the color out like that? No. He is generating his own light. He is warming himself on it. He is remembering movement. His remembering releases me.

I give my flame back to myself, feed my heart.

A cliff face looms, more heard than seen, a thickening, a tension behind the cloud. We turn parallel and make our slow way along.


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