My Welsh grandmother conjures her future from The Imperial-Royal Dream Book

I never knew Gladys Powell, just her broken book of fate,
its pencil marks, missing spine, loose and torn page 129.
It stole Gertrude's mourning wail among the flowers,
One woe shall tread upon another's heels, so fast they follow...
lifted Shakespeare's lines as prophecy. Gladys asked,
What is my Destiny? The book replied, Take 20 cards
and number them. Gladys stared into a grate,
one brother dead without a grave, another buried
too soon after. Then her daughter, Leonora. Margins
hold her dots, their crosses - page 51 is dark with grease.
Her hand, (I had her ring) was child-sized and stopped
most often here, at the Oraculum, detailing a firmament
lit with falling stars, storms that follow sea-birds,
omens sung daily by sparrows in the unlucky tree.