Bright Maiden, keeper of the crossed ways
Guardian of the keys, with a torch sparked with the fire of
life,
You stand at the entrance.
Stars glimmer about your brow,
You are the moment of the present, steeped in form,
The dark echo of the past, the future waiting to become.

I cross the threshold, step through the gate,
Past your phosphorescent face, into the poppy given
weight of sleep.
The sleep of the initiate, the sleep of death,
Waiting in the dark to rise on wings of brightness.

The years fall away, analysed, torn apart for symbol and
meaning.
My fear frames your glistening face, in the depths of black
fecundity.
Time ticks past, in the beating of my heart life bangs a
drum,
My only respite in the silence of your blackness.

Emerging I am wide-eyed again; lost.
Caught in the labyrinth of time, I follow the silver thread,
Thread that falls from its own distaff, in a spiral of
searching.

There, at the foot of the tree, belonging to no man,
A silver apple falls.
There, amongst the branches, the mother sits.
Weaver of dreams against the weft of the wood,
Insight falls like gentle rain on a moon-bathed garden.

Beyond the gateway, the crescent shines
And I walk through to find myself
Back where I came in.
I am found again, but with wings,
Ascended scars of healing shine within my soul.