Along the Severn Way in the English green
she walked with me through a dream—
the old woman who would rise at dawn to fish
in the small pond happily,
content with little.

I was her great-granddaughter and did not know
then of Grace, the pirate queen.
I too was happy to rise and later watch
the sun set each blessed day,
grateful for so much

That had been given, letting go of all that
had been taken, knowing it
would one day be restored. Through haze she showed me
fields, much like the ones I looked
out across that day.

"The fields ripe for harvest," she said urgently
Something in the way she spoke
seemed to be something I'd heard before, elsewhere.
And then she showed the angel 
who came years before

To hold the trumpet to my mouth when I lay—
dying, wounded and beyond
revival by any human force. The wind
came; sound moved through me and stirred
an ancient story.

I rose up, green and golden from distant land.
"You shall have your home," she said.
And then she tipped her bonnet, reminding me
to learn again, shell the beans,
await arrival.