in the mist
from the fallen book, pages flutter in the mist,
chimes scatter as wisps of straw in raw wind
as the child lies curved in sleep around the
tattered edge of his mother’s skirted hem
swollen lips lifted in sweet smiled sleep –
as the chimes, the chimes, coalesce and carry
them clear - past the sooted mirror of today
into the vast possibility of tomorrow
shimmering as light bounces joyfully from
golden scale to golden scale on
the gleaming body of mystic Ilsebill’s
fish
rising, regal, real and majestic from a cerulean sea
listening
to each innocent, exhaled breath
each unwhispered wish
about to be fulfilled
each unwhispered wish
about to be fulfilled