Little Rabbit's Glen

I gaze into the pool,

clear and reflective,

like a looking glass,

mirroring myself back to me.

Your hand rests ‘pon my shoulder,

rugged fingers curling into my shirt.

I rip my eyes from that watery looking glass,

to your antler-crowned head.

O’ Gwyn ap Nudd,

White, son of Mist,

you hold the looking glass,

so I may look deeper into myself,

and into the depths of the Otherworld around me.