Totally Optional Prompts: The Magician

The Magician
The darkness was still
and silent, it was absence
that held her, not warm
nor cold, just waiting.

Then there was a sound,
a flick of a switch,
then nothing again,
and she was still waiting.

Then there were footsteps,
a hard surface underfoot,
an echo, someone walking,
someone coming nearer.

She was blind, she could
not see, but there was a hand,
skin brushing cloth, a
reaching in the dark.

There was the rustling of
a body settling then for
a few seconds more there
was silence and expectation.

Then there was someone’s
solitary whistle and the
movement of air currents
and a sense of momentum.

At once there was something,
not any named thing, solid,
just an object in the darkness
and her sense of it there.

Then there were more things,
some close, some distant,
and the whistle nearing,
growing faint, turning, occupied.

Then there was the hint of
something, a light but yet
not brightness, a kind of dawn
without promise of daybreak.

There was a warmth and a
rising of damp and a
dry papery crackling beneath
fingertips and a softness.

There was a humming then
a singing and a swelling
to a crescendo and then a
heralding bell ringing.

Then there was an orb,
a light and a hand and the
light expanding and a
seeing of things created.

And there he was, at first
holding light then throwing
light, first owning then
giving light up in offering.

The light was a world, greater
than the bringer of things out
of darkness, the master
of all realms, the magician.

In memory of Hone Tuwhare, the first poet to truly inspire me.  May your spirit rest in all New Zealand's harbours.  

More poems on the theme of magicians here.