by Miranda Gent
The gentle breathing of the sleeping dragon
creates a continuous flow of slowly rolling peaks
and valleys that swash, eventually falling flat,
out of breath, to the shore.
Hopeful bubbles bob along
as the rims of different currents meet in careful collision,
churning up small fingers of foam
that create vein-like patterns in the ever-moving mass of verdant.
Delicate ruffles of ivory, flitting horses,
race lazily across the dull resolution
of the disturbed reflective surface,
winking flecks of ochre and gold
stained by the sun into the air.
Gentle ripples wondering aimlessly
across the awakening looking glass,
gather an unseen power
as a low rumble of danger begins
and something far out of reach begins to stir.