Miranda J W Waterhouse
Indigo
Child
Born in the caul, a veil of a violet hue,
an aura of indigo, a halo of silver,
its essence pure crystal,
an aura of indigo, a halo of silver,
its essence pure crystal,
she now surrounds herself with blue.
A weaver of dreams, she reads minds,
foretells the future, understands the loquacity of birds.
In the babbling of water, she hears the chattering
of cherubs;
Animals draw to her,
lie becalmed beneath her soft and healing touch;
fraught babies cease their crying at her gaze.
fraught babies cease their crying at her gaze.
She was not a fairies’ child
but sees into their devic fairy realms,
travels by night on blue rays of light,
carried on the wings of the philomel.
A lightworker, whose watchword is faith,
from somewhere far beyond,
surely of the Spirit, showing us
the errors of our crazy, human ways.
Cait O’Connor
3 comments:
I love your poems Cait. There is something very special about indigo - even the name is special! Love the pictures you have chosen too.
Finally found your blog! From first line to last this wanders in the enchanted kingdom under the hill, a place I always want to be...here you bring some of its magic to a mundane world that sorely needs it.
Lovely, Cait. Other-worldly and wonderfully dreamlike. Like a guardian angel.
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