Crone’s Prayer

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With hunched, frail shoulders the crone leant against her sand-smooth staff. Her gnarled hand trembled holding a wax sealed bottle. Inside, a parchment displayed swirls of an unknown language.

It’s fall soundless from above the rocks.  There it danced with the tide like a lost jewel beneath the hidden sun’s demise.

“Please…” Her croak echoless upon the breezeless eve. “Father, let me come home for this land is not for me.”

A tail of rainbow scales splashed a wave – then disappeared.

The bottle stolen.

She waited and prayed for the storms to align for her antiquated legs’ last dawn.

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5 thoughts on “Crone’s Prayer

      1. Nik says:

        Phew…was getting pretty lonely down there I can tell you…

        That’s a very deep (and epic) question. I shall put some thought into it…;)

        Liked by 1 person

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