I lay me down to doze
on the downs of Glastonbury.
A warm spring afternoon.
The grass is rich and green and new,
the ground, soft.
My hands clasp behind my head,for pillow.

I drowse and hear two voices.

“Greetings, priest.”

“Greetings priestess.”

I squeeze shut my eyes so to hear
but not be seen to be awake.

“Who is this boy, sleeping here?”,
the Lady demands.

“One of mine, I think,”
sighs the man.

“Well! A wonder he dares dream
so close to my Lake!
He does not know the consequence.
What other dreams may come
to hold him in their thrall.”

“Oh, he is to given to reason
to be swayed that way,
for your lake has dried
and he is vowed to a different Lady.”

“We are the same Lady!”

“No. His wears the Cross.”

“Yes. The cross that’s bared the door
so he may never wonder in the mist.”

“No. His Cross has given him
a choice and he has chosen.”

“No! That cross has blinded him.
He will never see the many paths.”

“The afternoon wanes, Lady.
I hope some century hence we
might have a variant conversation.
Take care.
The mist thickens.
You may stumble into our small chapel
and forsake your own last temple.
Farewell, priestess.”

“Priest,” the Lady hissed.

“Good evening, my child. Sleep well,”
they both whisper to me.

When I open my eyes,
two new made pairs of foot prints
gleam in an early evening dew,
reflecting sunsets light
in sparkles of red, gold
and a strange, liquid, blue.