seeded by Fran's freefall writing course
I slip between the veils of two worlds,
'twixt sleep and dreaming,
between memory and anticipation
drifting on the current of mist rising from the fields in the early mornings,
in the sun's rays, on a leaf being carried down the stream,
caught in an occasional eddy
where I spiral uncontrollably until,
snagged on a hook of rock, I'm cast forth once again.
I drift upwards in the smoke of an autumn bonfire,
bright sparks flowering golden against the night sky,
a flower that lasts but a few seconds, withers and dies.
On a vapour from a pot of stew I rise,
tantalising the nostrils of the gypsy bent over the fire,
sparks of light flashing off her golden earrings and from the lights in her eyes.