For NaPoWriMo a tritina about pentacles.
Beneath the sea the sand is silver dark,
Pale pentacles wave blind among the weeds,
Where sunlight’s solace never ever falls.
Beneath the moon a silent river falls,
Slips slick and sleek from silver light to dark,
Swallowed by pentacle-fronded weeds.
Whiskered creatures wearing widows’ weeds,
Crawl in the tide and creep beneath the falls,
Their suckered-fingers draw light into dark.
Dark are the weeds where no light falls.