Last night I had a dream
the Triple Goddess appeared,
first as a dancing girl
who wove violets in my hair,
then as my silent mother
who led me by hand to a mirror.
There, a beautiful, ugly
old hag stood laughing at me
and with her laughter
I began to laugh too,
as each flower metamorphosed
into love, poetry and music.
My lover is my soul image,
I told Dr Jung, the Self,
she who’s been calling me
towards her my whole life.
For my psyche
has never been whetted
by heterosexual love,
nor the image of a man.
Up the hill
and across the field,
behind red maple leaves
the Green Man watches
His Goddess,
busy in the nursery,
feeding, changing, singing
to Her children.
I wrote a poem and placed it your hands.
Around the poem I sketched many things,
a kingfisher on a branch of the tree of life,
images that will blaze in my heart forever.
Free at last after sixty grief-stricken years,
your dead, beaten up, broken down body
has departed, they cannot reach you now
as the Soul ascends to meet the ancestors.