A single firefly whisks away,
like a will-o-the-wisp to stray,
the sky is ebony dark,
the moon, a pearl of light, and

they stand, three sisters at the cave,
and wait for a sign, save
when they sigh
and pass along a single eye,
to tell the hero what awaits,
live or die, and

prophecies are fragile things,
if the banshee sings,

and the cauldron of rebirth,
stir its tides,
the light grows dim, and

the fates, they hide.

The web is spun,
wyrd has sung…

(c) 2011 Allen Simpson

Photo by Allen Simpson and Hanneliese Bredell. Taken at Lone Creek Falls, Sabie

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