i sing a journey and it is an open gate. between za and re, between
cláirseach and lute, between bare soles and well-buttered brogues more gates
stand open. scarlet are the dancers’ veils. they wrap me in a shawl
of singing, dance my blood through my veins. each one visits my heart
bringing roses. white-petalled stars are: roses thorned with splendour.
they nestle like chickens in straw. sharp are their twitterings of light,
exploding golden among dark, cold pebbles that no-one can see, because
they are ourselves, oh, truly they are our millions of magical selves.
each star, the bride of time, is as long and thin and winding
as time itself. who has braided these? taliesin’s hands on a lyre loom?
i follow a braided rainbow way through attitudinising zodiacs
on the braiding hands of gods, and get at last my place among the stars.