water charm

glaisteag of the river

Take a handful of glistening cherries to the river. The clutched offering reddens your palm, reddens your tongue, reddens your jaded spirit. Water speaks to water. Tears in your heart, tears in the pool, blood in the pool, blood in your womb, water in the river, water in your moon. A problem is nibbled to the bitter pip, spat out — five of them, in fact, lining the rock like stained teeth. How can these feeble husks shudder at the heart of so much juice and flesh? They are the hardened core, the scorpion’s sting, a homebrew hex sluicing your veins like dark, seductive poison. Gather them up, plant them in a water furrow — to wet and clean all that’s unseen, to separate sour juice from sweet poison and empty husk from stricken seed.