The first words that appeared. I knew which image the Oracle had in mind.
Ship of beauty
I ask what does it mean,
the image in the darkness.
Is it the distorting prism of the rain?
I hear her whisper,
The mother goddess,
the rose at the centre of the garden,
fills the soaring sky with birds,
your eyes with dreams.
You sleep in shadows, she says,
rocked in the aching arms of the wind,
beneath a pink and purple sky that never grows blue.
The storm is only under your skin,
the moon buffeted only by clouds.
Can you not hear her sing?
I turn my eyes inwards to the filling sails,
listening to the music violined across the waves,
the moon’s summer cradle-song.
Like the rose, the dream opens,
the storm dies and the sea is smooth as oil.
I hear the fading echo of the lullaby of the moon,
and through a rain of diamonds,
the rising sun, light soft as petals,
I see my ship, still waiting.