Rhiannon

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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