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Poem

There it is
The old kettle
Whispering on the hearth
In the winter it speaks to me
Of nights out on the moor

And as the wind
It whistles down the chimney
From above
I see the flames
Are whipped upon
Like Jesus carrying the cross

I’ll tell you the story though
I don’t know how it will end
There was a woman I married once
At least I think that’s how we met

She came to me in flowing clothes
As green as the grass she strode
I barely dared to look at her face
As she drew me ever on

And led me to the river
Across a wide meadow
Her presence seemed so odd to me
I began to shiver cold

As I stepped upon the river stones
The water stilled my soul
But then as she took off her linen robe
I began to burn up

I devote this dream to pallid nightfall!
The incredible lady said
And then she turned into a pale white horse
As real as you are there

A grey-white river mare she was
She led me deeper in
Her neck was strong
Her mane was proud
Some kind of wondrous change-ling

I tried to question it all myself
But powerless, up to my knees
I was aware of what was going on
But unable to plead

A woman again she turned to me
And loudly proclaimed
I seemed to have warmed you up, she said
I’d better cool you down

Tell me, am I a huntress? 
Am I the one who had the first vision?
Why are we here in this infinite now
Stuck in this wandering prism?

The pouring out of a life
Can be so heartless, so cruel
And that is why I come to you now
To help soften the truth.

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