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and water are different now.
Sometimes it's haze
hanging over a river whose current
is rainbowed with oil and moving
toward the border.
Other times, it's pure glare
glossing over crag and ocean heading
for an island in Greece.
But each time, there are refugees on a raft
and I rise from the tide to save
and ferry them ashore.
Crossings are my vocation,
so distant from the days of Avalon
when that island of apples and green rushes
sweeping the lake
was my home and altar.
My place to heal and charm.
Most remember me
as the veiled sorceress
who incited sin, manipulating knight and maid.
even my half brother the king
whose bed I shared and shadowed with lust.
But scholars barely mention
how I wept with Arthur's head in my lap
(on a boat wreathed with lilies)
lamenting all I had done
and vowing as I kissed his eyelids
to forsake my darkness and carry those
caught in distress.