Cauldron

She had nothing

but her soup-pot and cane,

the old womban.

At last she got tired

of railing at gods and men

to give her respect, her share.

She set off to sea

with her pot for a boat

and her cane for an oar.

She made her way round about,

to the vortex that swirls

down, down to the bottom of the sea.

Ignoring all warnings, ignoring all threats,

she spiraled down to the primal stone

that locks the hole at the bottom of the sea.

Prying with her cane she lifted it up

and everything tumbled in after her.

She is alive and well,

beloved priestess of her village.

Her sacred cauldron answers all questions;

Her rod of truth points clearly

to the way ahead.  (African myth)

© Tamara Rasmussen 2018