I came down to the rites,
numinous ghosts in my mouth
small change in my mind
light wind at my back
following the stream from a high lake
that takes you to the sea
if you stay with it.

You know how to do this,
the chord the old hand struck,
the weightless temple crowned with clouds
the call to ranks of rain,
of smoke, of broken bread
until our lowland loves
consume us all again.