Rhiannon of the Mabinogi

Most deities sit, arrogant, on clouds
detached from real lives. I save my worship
for my mare goddess, Rhiannon. She ambles
out of Welsh mists, nuzzles my hand, bends
my mind to Celtic prayers. Her fetlocks steam,
her breath is infused with aromas of meadows,
sweeter than new mown hay. Her stately pace
is faster than any man or any stallion's gallops.
Yes, I made a graven image, to cover her absences.
When I stroke her cast-bronze head, my fingers
remember her warm, life-pulsing hair, her coat.
Her lowered eyes seek heaven, on earth. Desire fruits
in rich-blooded women, with feet of clay, her true tribe.  
My passion rolls like sea fret through my brain and limbs:
When I've invoked her seven times, she'll come again.