Not sure if this hits the prompt, just my usual sort of mystical ramblings. For the dverse prompt.
Editing because I didn’t answer the question and realise I don’t know what to say. There’s a mystical quality to poetry and the writing of it and I always listen out for it.
There are no trout in this deep pool,
and though I peer with seeress eyes,
I see only damselflies
and the rapid scissor-dart of frogs.
I peer, see only in the mud, the wreck
of trees, the flotsam banked
like intricately woven dams.
No hazel twig hangs in suspense,
but whitethorn berries crowd the bank,
red-cloud the branches overhead,
and in the clouded crowd of small
white moths, I see the pearly drops
of moon, the fluttering ash of fire spent,
and know that you will come no more
to watch for trout in the damsel pool,
beneath the cooling white-moth moon.