Lover of the Morning Star

King of the Oak Wood,

The Holy Women of Heaven

Gathered around my bed and stood,

And sang me songs

The whole night through.

Deep from the dripping valley

I arose with the dawn,

Crowned with red, glowing glory,

And their singing still ringing

In the hills full of black birds

And the waves that came crashing

To the shore.

I awoke in a dream

That flows through a stream of galaxies,

And in my hands

I hold the clay,

With which to form,

My own realities.

. . . . . . Roderick 1989