Wizened, orange eyed, older than old,

You thrum your throat song of past ages told.

You sing to your eggs that float in jet onyx reams,

The song of re-remembering our ancestor’s dreams.

You who traverses the threshold of water and land.

You who feels knobbly and cold to the hand.

You who is sorcerer of the liminal space

And yours is the elders life lined face.