How grace You fair the Summerlands,
When the Wheel revolves to Your command.
With tumbling tendrils of Your blooming hair,
Your perfumed breath woven into June’s air,
And soft, downy roses of Your cheeks pink,
Under apples honeying for ambered drink,
The moss-sweet meadows bubbling with springs,
Young cranes soar overhead with Your wings.
These long, lilting Glaston days are Your behest
To the Undeserving and alike, the Blessed.
Even Chronos gives way to Your valse musette,
And slows Time for Your gentle satined step.
Your cooing throbs in the breast of wood pigeon,
Your swooping crows provide Your vision.
Winter’s aching grief swept away by Your mercy,
Dried in fairy kisses and daisy rings labyrinthine.
Your night scented blooms open in pleasure,
Like a choir, to Your dark, starry vault of treasures.
The late aromas along the lanes and ridings,
Of scents so pungent and dusky and enticing,
Reminding us of ancient ages, that Time forgot…
Of gentler, slower days and deeper thoughts,
When a man’s dreams were valued more than gold,
And a real song could birth new worlds from old.
This is Glaston, raw earth of potter’s clay,
Where Beauty sleeps and dreams Her world into play.
© by Annie Dieu Le Veut
7th June 2014
Image: Psyche’s Dream by Josephine Wall