i waited for the stars through the setting sun, lingering smell of bushfire painting feather clouds into bright birds. i waited for the stars because in dream, after the end of the world, when all that was needed was done, the stars came brighter than any stars i had seen before, like sunlight catching quiet…
if it must be that dreams will follow, traipse home with us from that other world, then let them be this sweet awakening to mist plumes that sigh the birded valley at dawn.
In grateful and loving memory of Dusky Moon i dreamed once the white mare ran along the forest edge unbound in a place that felt like home and i waited and i searched and i listened for that place until, full pregnant, i could wait no more and the dream faded. we built…
coming home in the night the river still flows dark under that quiet dream sky and we fall to that flow as we fall to sleep and the water reclaims us fin and gill and speaks us silver ripple and quiet splash to the trees. if there was a long night it was dark and…
waking starless under a blanket of mist thickened sky – knowing my night was peopled by dream, busy with colour and the almost taste of something remembered that exists there – here in the mist crowded morning only the spider-webs, night written and condensed into form, are visible.