i should go on down the dales
to the palace of rhiannon
by the caers, those misty isles
you see, as though at sea.
a place of memory, the sidhi,
under the silver moon's
starry wheel of heaven.
a myriad jewel, a peacock's fan,
a tiara on a diadem arisen
in the slivered shimmering night.
but here at the lagoon
are peril, dread & doom.
a frond as perfect than the abysm,
waters colder, darker than the light,
where not even the moon appears
to shift its depths wherein sky shivers.
embraced in a silver circle alone,
an oracle more brittle than bone
or wind lashed skin naked drawn,
all who enter here none return.
Gift of Tongues
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|Reviewed by Kate Clifford
|Love the descriptions within this write.|
|Reviewed by Ronald Hull
|Familiar, yet foreign, etheral. Nice balance between fantasy and reality.
|Reviewed by Kenny Moon
|A beautiful place the Lake District, and your evocative poem captures a mystical dimension that I'm sure exists beyond
traditional British materialism.
|Reviewed by Sage Sweetwater
|The English Lake District used to be a mystical place where the faeries and fays danced under the moon and the princess's crown and the peacock's feather blending five colors added to Luna's celebration ... oh, take heed, sounds like the pagan circle has been warned of the oracle of the Ouija board. Take Heed! A mysterious, dark foretelling, Robin.
|Reviewed by Elizabeth Taylor (Reader)
|Those are some good lines about a wonderful legend.
Well done and it was a pleasure to read.