Silent as a fish it waits, now rises,
Her thought, carried down unseen,
Not by demand, but in a letting go,
Nourished in the dark archaic stream.

Her body softens and unfolds, decelerates
Into the long slow curve of sleep,
As dreams, crazy and inscrutable,
Come riding bareback from the deep.

The dream fish does not swallow me, I lie,
Listening to the quiet singing of her breath,
To voices on the street, as tomorrow’s tendrils
Of perception wither, which to me is death.

I once slept on Brandon Mountain, my bed
The bee-attended heather, the sun my sheet,
And woke from granite depth in utter bliss
And sang myself a man complete.

That was another life, before the Maiden
Into whose moon arms I’d nightly fold,
Departed, leaving only this dull cloak.
Without silver what use is there in gold?