(Ode to Catherine: wife of William Blake)

Good day, Mr Blake,
how good to see you,
to be beheld, once more,
by those New Jerusalem eyes,
by your look of love
that shall ne'er alarm me,
those eyes so filled with fire
and twilight song,
those eyes, so kind,
so full of wonder.
Good day, Mr Blake,
how good to see you,
to feel my hand tremble
eternally home in yours,
in those craft-filled hands
that brought down fire from heaven,
your bold, broken knuckles
e'er labouring in Vulcan's first forge,
all bruised, all coated
in ash, coal and silver,
those fingers most delicate,
sparkling with star dust
and the silent tears of angels.
Good day, Mr Blake,
my sweet billy boy,
'tis me, 'tis I, your blessed Kate,
this poor, untutored girl
upon whose word you did wait,
to whose alehouse sermons
you oft gladly listened,
in delight drinking in
of her roaring river songs,
and ne'er shall I forget
how brightly we blazed,
burning on our bed 
of fiery delight,
our laughter that chased
the creeping shadows away,
that chastened the dole peeling
of those cold graveyard bells,
innocent, inviolate,
shameless in our First Eden
with skin fair and free,
as naked and new
as the day we were born,
as the day we did die,
long, long ago,
and yet only a moment.
Good day, Mr Blake,
my twin, my soul,
how good to recall
those endless, dancing nights,
riding in rapture
on time's rushing waves,
hid from cruel Cronus's wrathful gaze,
dancing in knowing
through the magic maze,
diving naked as one
into violet oceans of dreams,
waltzing in rapture
across the still whispering greens.
Oh, blacksmith, lift me high
upon your winged heal,
light this trembling phoenix heart
with the songs you unseal,
brush my heart with the hem
of your blazing, bright soul,
in your light, let me linger,
forever and always.
Good day, Mr Blake,
mighty of mind
and glad of heart,
as fierce as a tiger,
as wild as the wind,
a fire to set loose
these captive, sorrow-filled souls,
these songless hearts
held too long in ransom,
a fist to break the fetters
of those mind-forged chains,
placing heaven in their palm,
a golden thread at their feet.
Good eve, Mr Blake,
you for whom time
did bow and bend,
your inner-wedded face unchanged,
your hyacynth fragrance,
your sunrise songs,
on throne of oak seated,
so dazzling, my darling,
all crowned in grace
and children's smiles,
oh, look once more,
gaze deep into me,
subsume me in your shining vision,
this vision as graced as
mortal sight has e'er been,
for the nakedness of the Most High,
those angel-eyes have surely seen.
And forgive me, my dove,
that I may paused to ponder,
on what those eyes that once
beheld eternity hid in a grain of sand,
saw high heavens in a flower,
saw trees full of angels
and God's face at the window,
what did those eyes once behold,
once behold in me,
your once, your always,
thrice blessed Kate.

By Uriel

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