How I yearn for its voice. Yet how I fear it.

Into the liquid grottoes of my sleep it comes, a green spirit stirring in a palace of shadows.

Into the murmuring mill race of my dreams it comes bearing its songs, the trilling tongues that form its syllables.

But why beat out its meter! Or dance to its rhythms!

Let it weave its incantations! As it comes, so it leaves!

2024, Bare Hill, Middlesex