Dreamtime

The dreamer's choice

It might be imbolc ~ springtime ~ by the Celtic calendar, but the effects of dreamtime linger.

This is the time after winter solstice. You’ll know it, even if you’ve not heard it described like this before. You don’t feel particularly motivated. Maybe you resist going out, especially in the evening. At the same time, part of you wonders about the year ahead. What will it hold? What do you want it to hold? And so we are called to dream… I called this piece ‘The Dreamers Choice’:

Look up. 
Don’t forget to look up. 
Keep looking up. 

You might just catch the
wisp of smoke,
trail of cloud. 

You are allowed, you know,
to reach out with fingers or tongue. 
Taste it. 
Not candy floss, or rain,

it tastes of cut grass. 
Ironed shirts, gorse. 
A thousand miles walked. 
And kissing. 

Which will it be?
The unbearable taste of dreams?
Or to look down?
Hands to yourself,

your feet on breezeblocks, tarmac, brick. 
Your tongue in your mouth, unless
it is keening the loss of something. 
Something I might call sky.