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Winter"
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Rhiannon"
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Turning Of The Wheel
For my Mother, who knows why.
Unspoken, oh Knight,
I wrote of your death,
Never fancying it would truly happen.
In childish visions, I dreamed myself alone
Imagined no pain came of it,
For you were always there.
Now faced with this Truth,
To all things, there is the semblence of endings,
I do not know what answer to give.
My heart aches within me,
For there is no denying what I know
Only a postponement, indeterminancy.
How to face the knowledge
That some day it may be my voice
My will that speaks your death?
Tonight I light incense, praying
Hope against fear,
That this will never come to pass.
What a burden for an unwary daughter
Some innocent supposing
Transformed into nightmare
A shadow horse that staggers out of the dark,
clicks white teeth together, laughing
and is gone, like a ghost.
© Anne Cross, 2000
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