Of all the maternal faces I see at night,
not one has asked me, “what is he like?”
Not one has told tales of erotic display,
nor of lovers’ trances – harsh
like rushing rivers that pull girls away.

Not one of my cloaked, dreamy mothers
has dared to ask, “when shall I knit?”
the clothes for a babe not yet conceived,
not yet...

No, my grandmothers and aunties
who walk not on this world?
have never told me that I, just a young girl,
should prepare for a dashing prince to whisk me away
away to a castle, where, for my life, I must stay.

Not one of the women who visit at night
would dare let my dreams fade out of sight.
Like Caer they work, planting the spark,
lighting my heart as I lay in the dark.