St. Melangell’s Day, Eastnor ( II )

The Book of Doves opens to the Chapter of Bridges.

In my youth the most frightening dreams

involved turbid water, something beneath the muddied

surface, something dangerous that remained

unseen. And I was staring down, from a high bank

or some fragile or else broken span. Dream of arches

and of the blind dogs that prowl their stolid footings.

It’s time to offer gifts again, to whomever you like.

Because we have lost the Book of Gifts,

from which we might derive more perfect knowledge.

At some point those dreams ceased, for me,

and others took their places, the restless song service

that will never quite begin, the endless queues.

I place the drugs back in their silk sack, I add more salt

to the grinder. Thus do some days carry their ashes

outside, to the clean place. A cycle is restored.

We can be men and women again, though not without

risk. You may read about it in the Book of  Tongues.