“She’s not a Branwen or Angharad, she’s not a long rooted, long versed story of lake or hill, she is a mover and a waker and a shaker, a loose-hipped Zanzibar priestess of the blown fuse of the sacred everything, a prophetic wanderer, even if her migrations take centuries to complete. She is a great clatter-bash of gnostic lightning. Wherever she is, she can remember a place before that. She has charisma in every setting.

“And now, due to a fascination with street lights, she is walking the lanes. They are a disappointment. She sleeps in a bus shelter.

“In the morning her mind is full of fur and light.”