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.