Here runs the river you glimpsed in prayer.
It's chill and pure, quick with ancient trout that speak.
Gills fanned, silver at ease in deep pools,
they gossip of prophets and warfare,
and the metallic end of all heroes.

Gabriel wades the river's bright edge,
absorbed by his task, the sun at his back.
Water pours between two cups he holds
and as it moves from hand to holy hand,
the destroyer of Gomorrah is still,
transfixed by control and containment.

This graceful land is the end of the boneyard,
the garden of myth, the source of true fables,
and yet, beyond it, a dirt path winds westward,
upward through mountains, rising toward sunset.

The Hanged Man
Death
Temperance

The Devil
The Tower
The Star

The Moon
The Sun
Judgement

The World