You had the dream-maker tell you riddles

You gave the way forward through your prophetic heart

We felt our way through what they call intuition

It is really the soul when it speaks

My magic is unceremonial, my turn is my own wand

When I walk I have wattage and the daoine sìth gather

My sea hymns are of certain instinct and make a good flood

Such as they seek of the river Boyne 

Poets creep to it and spill their best words

I try to stir the pot of cerridwen too

catch the last tuletary genius as it takes me down.