The moon is a scrying bowl. The blue crystal filters the essence and makes the hidden known. The three walk together.
There is the anchor, a shell that parts the air and stakes a claim in this world. The shade of conscience follows compliant and obedient, a creature of the tame and civilized light. The pagan shade also passes. A well kept secret, the old face is laid bare cupped in the reflected depths of the mirror.
The anchor moves and the filament light fades. Conscience turns to charcoal grey. The face of the first god wavers and swells in the crystal waters of the diviner’s light. Tightrope taut, three waver on the rim. A cold gust of wind sends a cloud to mar the depths and the curtain drops. Keeping secrets now the filament light waxes to swallow the trinity whole.
The depths hold an echo. The moon is a scrying bowl and its’ crystal light filters the essence and makes the hidden known.