THE POND by Rand Williams

I slowly verged on some ancient earthen mirror

where pulsating mantras drum the perimeter

right there, amidst wocus and cattail sticks,

web-footed monks on pondlily altars sit

Surveying all about their realm in lotus poise

with sodden lids half veiling pensive eyes,

awaiting the water spider’s minuet of night

to dance before their sacrificial appetites

Then forces stirred beneath this soul-pretentious spell

that made the tide around the holy alters swell,

when up some scaly serpent surged from worlds below

to surface then and gulp one sacred body whole;

the silver fin churned through stirrings of pellucid light

flashing out beyond my saturation point of sight

The ritual ceased and the clergy returned to dwell

along the bank where the resounding ripples fell,

the serenity mirrored by the pond then shattered

and with it my dream, full of images, scattered