From the Island

… for a long time a spy on her land, on the mysterious sea lit by stars …

… built there a temple dedicated to the underworld gateway
—a sacred spring or well, a cup, attended by a sisterhood of nine for those who sail towards the mysterious realms and fruits of the underworld …

… they say she is ruler of the doorways & knows the ways of shape-changing and flying

—vision, delight & wisdom …

The clear sparkling stream gushes from the Cove hidden among the heather and swashes all over the slopes of the Hillocks & down the ravine. She—multifold in her shapes & features, lady of mirrors & flight—is panting & quivering & swaying in the ritual. Through a sacred spring or well, a deity still resonates about the magical image of her. All around her sisters are shaking & rocking in the ritual, their hands blurred in swing. Spring & light & darkness, guarding the gateway of a goddess—

Rapture opens the gateway.

Images are coming through the drifting mists in wonder and ecstasy.

A faraway voice arises …

… loss, but something remains, & almost unknown entrance—a change and a passage—Do not open the scroll called of the threshold of the borrowed light—Moon—Strange Cups of Threshold …

… wonder, adoration & summons of rapture—delight—human love taking charge of the refuge—bliss, beauty—the literal word made false, drawn from things below …

… happiness, coming rather from vanished visions, and the flux of chance and visions—Fairy favours seen in the glass …

… an unfamiliar precinct/future, feeds her dream—the gift of perverse unknown entrance—a change and a passage …

… loss, but something remains—the end of a light, drawn from things below—the sign of life—happiness, coming rather from vanished past and childhood …

… sea—stars/sky/sea/the land/wells and springs—golden bed of the cup …

#Scrying Scraps