Cerridwen lies sleeping.
The wrinkles in her skin are deep as lakes;
the white of her snow-hair
is soft and binding.
Cerridwen lies dreaming.
Cerridwen stretches, gleaming,
a kaleidoscope of shifting ages,
the firmament of swift stars
with their whirling and winding.
Cerridwen stretches seeming.
Cerridwen dances shining.
The moon sweeps over; the river wakes;
the white-skinned earth admires
the constellations she's unbinding.
Cerridwen's dance is riding.