The Hidden Chapel (2004)

Magic isle washed by sleep’s blue tide,
Hidden chapel somewhere under
This brow of risen knowns: You are
The poem my hands wake to write
Aching to gallop long white reams
To find you at last, sweet turbine
Valving heaven’s hairy wheels.
I dreamt a high hill far west and
A river bent full round before
It, with drear rapids at the curve.
A wild choir spilled scented throats of
Flowerish glee as I feared the way
I must oar. Down and round a
Peril, then flow my way on back.
I’m sure the door’s inside that wrack.