Song of the Watcher

Thought and Memory

always watching,

waiting, circling,

ready to report back

as I sit upon

my childhood throne;

much smaller now,

overgrown

as I have grown

looking out to sea

while the wind whistles

across the castle ramparts.

The one-eyed man

told the log lady

to go into the heart

of the forest

where the magician

would be waiting.

He had said

he would wait

until dawn.

I asked the

one-eyed man

what the magician

had to tell me

from his heart,

in the forest

amongst the old trees

with bark as thick

as my fist

and hollow gateways

descending into

the Underworld.

“The hanged man

will tell you

all he knows,

and will gift you

the flower from

which the seed

of Aeon plants the

child Horace

to birth

the flight of the Phoenix;

breaking out of the golden

egg in its primal scream,

just as you,

the Queen of Wands,

take your rightful place

on your fire throne.”

This much

I see with my

blind eye:

you knew

each other

before.

So it is.