Back Of Our Hands

Back Of Our Hands

Killing time.  LA11 7HN.

Time on its side, feeling like 7:00, but really gone 10:00.

Beneath a Dali sky, stealing the view and sucking it in.

Swirling in our minds, like a king tide coming, imploding within.

Through the ford we laugh and ride,

Dogs in the sun and feeling right,

Spilling drinks, well that’s ok,

Slide down the rocks and into the bay.

Let the bouncing rain come down.

Count each drop, we know we’ve found,

That rowing boat to shelter in,

To hide us in,

To find us in.

Down to the beach by the rope swing we go,

Where we touch and where we know each other,

…Like the back of our hands.

MT.

(Images: google images)

Lucid Dream

 “often when one is asleep, there is something in consciousness which declares that what then presents itself is but a dream”. Aristotle.

Still, I lay still, while a spectre, like smoke, mysteriously vanishes to reveal – a face?

My avatar manifests, assembles through the half light, grainy.

My throat, dry, what do I say?

All I can do is stare, a strange mortification looms and grips.

 Time lasts forever, not long enough.  Agony, eternal…

Birds begin to sing and tweet.  Softly, then rising in volume as my ears auto-adjust, accommodating sound.

Diffused, but brilliant light.  Air, clear, crisp, cold and a sharp intake of breath.  Am I awake?

Still, I lay still.  I sigh, deeply.  My hands, woven, cradle my head.  Eyes on repeat blink search the space above my head…

Am I awake?