So far aldersprig has funded $10 of this $20 poem. Who wants to chip in toward the other half? I am posting the first three verses of the poem now, the rest to follow as funding comes in.
This poem came out of the February 8, 2011 Poetry Fishbowl. It was inspired by a prompt from eseme and cosponsored by aldersprig. Here continues the tale of the seer who scrys with the ink of sea animals; this poem is a sequel to "The Fisherman's Daughter" and "Atramentous Visions."
It is not the visions in the bowl of ink
that captivate her,
but the visions inside her own eyelids.
As the seer ages, her sight begins to dim.
Bright eyes cloud over
until she can scarcely see
the dear faces of her family circling near.
Yet her Sight never wavers,
strengthened by myriad drops of ink
and the viscous swish of magic.
The seer can no longer gaze into the scrying bowl,
but she does not need to do so.
The light and the darkness are one,
and within her.
The smooth bone that cups her brain
is bowl enough for her now.
The world within and the world without
are barely separated by a thin, rippling surface.
Shadows swim like krakens
through the gathering gloom.
Her face is weathered now,
its furrows worked by the waves of time.
Wrinkles bracket her mouth with the footprints of gulls
forever facing into the wind.
Years of tracing an inky fingertip between her eyes
have left their mark there, like a dark line of horizon.
Soon the tide will roll out
and take her with it,
take her home.
For now the seer waits,
and whispers what she observes
into the shell of her daughter's listening ear.
The old woman Sees far more
now that she can no longer see.
These visions are filled with colors for which she has no names,
and shapes that she can hardly understand.
They flicker with electricity like strikes of hidden lightning
and follow currents whose patterns she can almost begin to grasp.
The seer finds them more enchanting than siren song.
Sometimes she thinks that
the world's dreams have gotten lost,
marooned in the white-capped ocean of her eyes.