Every journey I remember passes there, whether the trail is unswerving
or shy: the lake vista. I always imagine mine as Walden pond, a small rise
overlooking the night-still waters. No mosquitos, no crickets or cicadas, even,
chitter in the night, though some fireflies spark moments like shooting stars
over the milky-way waters. She’s female, isn’t she? The phase, the surges of
light followed by hiding in shadows, the tidal forces – I, too, am drawn by her
primal sway.
But I’m not even glancing her way, so entrancing is her
image on the waters, almost more beautiful, I’d say. Atop my little knoll, I
watch her stroll, dance, shimmer, glide across the velvet lake, as an ephemeral
swan of light, a gossamer boat, the lady under the water in wedding whites, diamonds,
pearls, the white footsteps of the divine and sacred goddess. With a smile, she
beams with every wave, and waterskippers flounder in her wake, nipped by hungry
fish whose leaps send ripples down her argentine gown.
Olwen – her slippers never even touch the lake, so light her
dance and elegant, the wind is enough. I’m there now, watching the lake
carefully, wondering whether I’m here to stay, or destined to return ever
again. The dreams are there, my earth soul is bound to this place, but it’s
lacking, and I am. A myth runs through my veins, but this one? I fear I’ll soon be trapped in a tree,
under a stone, without any wizardly cunning to set me free.
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