Robert Graves: 20th July 1969 Shutters fastened to keep out the light, you sat still, eyes closed this moonwalking night. Down the road in the upper café the only TV round about drew for you the shrill and the slick, faithless as the lost must be who can’t “count the beats”, the shame of their game cutting through limestone as the Goddess retreats. “All saints revile her” spelt out in a dream, her gift absolute where the torrent outguns the stream. This made no sense that night in war: bisecting craters when the moon too bright, you couldn’t kill against that light. And now? You sight Diana Nemorensis (Mother Goddess Vesta) and know your duty is her rite.
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