I dig deep in dreams;
in curled leaves,
in beech-mast,
to meet the scratch
of dead fingers itching
through the clay.
To meet the kings
on their way back
up to the old world.
To the circulus, the avenue,
the circle of earth-rooted stones,
and the forted hill
raised above the coils
of the estuary.

Beyond the drowsy
golden woods
they forgot themselves
and the centuries flowed
with a rising tide of skulls
in the earth; scattered
where the river loses
its reflection, loses
its way, grows briny
and sluggish in anticipation
of the sea, grows broad
and muddy in anticipation
of the sea, grows black
and bloody in anticipation
of the sea.

The currents and meanders
of the world retreat,
ebb, flow away and they...
They open their hollow old eyes
and their hearts burn
in the glow-worm grove.
The ancients of the wood
enthroned in the rocks,
in the soil, in the roots,
disturbed by dream-fields,
dream men, dream trees
dream flights
of southering geese,

dream swans floating
on the endless river,
a dream crow calling
in a parched voice,
"unbound, unbound, unbound,"
while all the world
dreams deep in the barrow,
in the soil, in the roots
that grow down inch
by inch by inch and merge
with the burial mound's
green-boned back.