Forestalled upon the edge of love a nameless woman stands
poised and ready, willing, to experience the air
and feel it blowing blissfully around her wayward hair.
Not as a feather flies but quickly, hurriedly,
she descends and welcomes in the full thrust of memory
to keep her briefly buoyant on her journey through the air.
Aligned with the wind and the freedom of belief,
and blanketed with moisture of passionate release,
she rockets down to ground too fast to turn around
and anchor herself to rocks of present times.
But she lands unharmed, figuratively speaking,
and travels to the sea intent on swimming free
to an island she can’t see.
She still swims today and you’ll see her in the waves
thrashing back and forth, crossing over in the rough,
and bobbing like a cork in moments of respite.
And the island she can’t see remains as a dream,
a technicolour dream on a wide screen,
until she has to turn, wave a final goodbye,
and sink painstakingly to the bottom of the sea.
The bottom of the sea;
can it hold an endless dream
and not destroy the element
that made it so to be?
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