All wise men fear water.
They fear drowning, in too deep
they fear rain dripping steadily onto the street
they always carry umbrellas and
they never look at seas.

When I was young, I saw a river
Due to drought, it was growing thinner.
Stones were like gems inside it and
the fish were just like silver.

The water was streaming onward fast
not a hard-smooth mirror or a sheet of glass.
I reached my hand into it and
I felt it rushing past.

They compare eyes to windows,
a way of looking in;
or glassy, like a mirror--
are you but a reflection?

Eyes like water, too, they say:
deep pools, deep seas.
But pools may freeze
and seas may swell with storm.

Glass and water, they trade
similes as one and same.
A pool of tears, a looking glass--
I'm always slipping through.

But I can't reach through this mirror.
Ice has covered
the pool of your reflection;
there is frost on the window to your soul.

      Frigid waves rock like a cradle.

      They enfold like a sheet.

      The torrents caress stilling limbs.

      Her only comfort from life

      the roaring swell

      that she embraces, sinking deep.

      Her fey mind sings its blighted tune.

     She opens her arms to rest,

     a place apart from violent ends

    and strife.

    Her dampened brow lies pale.

    Lifeless lids do not wake.

    She said good-night to the ladies

    and bid her last

    farewell.

<I was taking a walk by a lake near my home, watching the small pools of water lap away at the edges of the ice, when the words 'slow little ice-melting trickle' popped into my head. Here's the finished product. ~L.W.>

The slow little ice-melting trickle,

Liquifying that haughty stone,

That stands in cold white defiance,

Ignoring Winter's call to her own.

Step into the river.

Step into eternity.

Water licks about my shoulders, tugging at my hair so it swirls about me like water weeds. I take one step, then another. Lopsided pebbles wiggle under my bare feet, threatening to push my feet away. Fish peer out from underneath the overhanging banks. One brushes against my legs, leaving only ripples to show its passage.

Blissfully blooming beauty sprung
Budding, arraying colours gay
Pussy willows, daisies, daffodils
Mingling fresh breath of trees

Cheerfully notes of birds fly
Amongst Mary’s eyes blue sky
Light pouring forth in great measure
In grass yellow-green with colour

Amongst the basin of watery blue
Wispy white brushstrokes flee
Droplets, sparkling, pearly rain
The whistling of wind whirls round

Blustering, fluttering shadows
Swaying, tilting boughs
Bending, leaning blades
Flying, swirling leaves

After taking her time dressing, Mel and her parents went back to Gran's house.
Mel was and wasn't looking forward to this visit. What if...What if she was right? Mel thought this over again and again in the car. She did wonder what they looked like, what they were like. What if they exsisted after all? Oh, that would be amazing!
Mel shook herself mentally. Stop it, Mel. Gran just needs a....uhmmm....Wake up call! Yeah. That's it, a wake up call, she told herself.

Mel plopped down on her hotel bed that night, questions running through her confused mind.
Why would Gran make up ridiculous lies like that? But what if she wasn't lying? What if the did see, or at least think she saw, the water horses? Mel grabbed her black hair and pulled on it. I really need to shut up and go to bed, she thought.
She tossed the blanket over her and closed her eyes, trying to sleep.