Lead me across these dark waters,

With a sprig of yew and elder crossed upon my brow.

To lands unknown am I bound,

Let me forget the world I came from.

Drifting upon these silent waters,

As a solid ghost paddles us on.

To Chimera do we drift,

Past where the sun goes down.

That we may find a balm for this weary heart,

In a and foreign and over grown.

Time has stopped as the heavens twist with gray,

But hark I hear wood upon stone we drift no more.

Stepping from my watery pyre,

I have be cast onto an alien shore.

Tall wooded mountains line this rough rocked country,

Hard pebbles and stone lay beneath my bare feet warning me of what may be.

A dredge am I wreathed in myst,

Upon what looks to be an empty land.

But lo, what is this? A tumult comes upon me,

Hooves upon the ground beat a sterling rhythm.

Forms burst from the fog with graceful bows drawn,

Behold my wonder twined with real fear.

Arrows drawn back with muscular arm,

Yet no rider stands before me with rearing steed.

I behold both in a broad chested creature of yore,

A trio of centaurs toss their heads as I hold aloft yew and elder twigs high.

Eyes older than my lands lead these eyes and take me in,

While weapons hesitate and lower.

Hooves paw the ground ears shift heads bow,

As they consider this unusual spectre.

I long to hear them speak for their voices are faint,

Conferring my future road.

Elegantly crafted bags and belts tell of a keen hand’s work,

Leather twines their thick black hair while hands gesticulate back down the coast.

And then one by one they turn to me,

Legs kicking at the uneven terrain.

Then each point due west along the mountains,

They know why I’ve come and who they’ve found.

To Chimera I go on a strange quest I know,

And this is only the beginning.

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Author’s note: January can be a tricky writing season for me. As chill winds and gray scenes seem to steal my resolve and inspiration, I challenge myself to fill my disquieted parts with fantasy. So for a moment, escape with me upon the shores of Chimera and believe we are upon an errand most peculiar.

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Michael is a husband, father, writer, poet, and aspiring author. He finds time to scribble down his thoughts in the dead of night, between ghosts and night owls. If you’d like to read more of his poetry follow the link here. Or to visit his full blog, ‘The Ink Owl’ click here.