The dream follows me all day, without objection. A twinge,
barely detectable, of some regret, of a lack; of wanting, that is the worst of
it.
In the woods, stumbling; all this crunching underfoot; it
looks as though the trees have had themselves a wild ruckus. Where the wind
does not reach the quarry pool surface, a meditative mirror lies. The river
runs riotous. A moss ball nods in the moving air; seems like a sage old head on
a young spike, like it knows what I aspire to.
A room of my own, a writing shack: something that would
not seem out of place in this den of iniquitous fought out trees; I would
gather the debris for my fire; or half buried in a sand dune; on the roof,
paint an X. An attic corner, shared with spiders. A travelling desk in the back
of a camper. An office room with safety conscious furniture, all rounded edges
and stern colour. In the dust of a long abandoned ballroom, under the
chandelier… underground, with luminescent rock. A geothermically heated foot
rest.
Imagination flames, burns up the ache, smoulders it out:
the smoke hangs picturesque, not obscuring the view.
Comments
I love it, Lis.