dream time


dream time

the years roll back
western sunrise, fire-red, livid
sets calm purple in the east

summer turns to spring, spring to winter
red brown leaves hold the promise of future sunlight

decay becomes life
forgetting forgiving

full moon new earth
a hundred moon months and another hundred

a winter day
steel and white linen
she lies in darkness
eyes closed
knowing the need for becoming

pushing, crushing, squeezing
bone grates on bone
screaming, screaming inside
breathless silent cries

then thrust
from darkness to light
from security to potentiality
gasping first breath, harsh on empty lungs
venting pain, feeling comfort
feeding on a heaving breast

I am there

I cry I laugh
knowing what two hundred moons will bring

dream time

I fly
arms move like wings
like slow fins in thick water
one beat per day

winter turns to spring
gliding through months
chasing rosy fingered eos

in a garden

is it eden
the land where the golden fleece hung
serpent protected
amongst animate bones

just a garden
leaf dappled light on rich earth

unseen yet oddly familiar
as if
it were my own
or the garden of my dreams

a bird sits in a bush

it flies

something there
the branches sway
a faint sound
a breath held tight
not daring to be heard
a smell catches the nostrils
oddly familiar

a shift
someone else's dream

bison on a distant plain
prairie grass
endless wind blown waves to a gently undulating horizon

a bird stands on a grass head pecking seeds
the trill of grasshoppers
the smell of deep hot summers
warm earth sun dried hay

breaking the timeless moment
a whoop and trample of hooves
brown skinned dark haired riders
eager to be first to kill

and trample turns to thunder
two hundred tons of sweat flecked flesh
like a swaying curtain on a summer evening
like an autumn bird cloud
like a winter snow slurry
like translucent sun sparkled spring drizzle

a hundred beasts as one fluid whole
then split by horse and rider
then join again

until one is divided
perhaps weakest
perhaps youngest
perhaps just unlucky
a soul cut from its roots

trying to lose itself again in the bison stream
at bay
pawing dry red earth
hay making

the first arrow bites
fear turns to desperation
death daring riders beneath foam filled nostrils
eager to kill
eager to die

each sweep of horned head slower
each arrow
each spear thrust
blood washes sweat and foam
'til calm at last it falls to its knees and slowly, so slowly
upon its side

last breaths fail
dry earth soaked red

beneath the black of an endless land-ocean sky
laughter and children
dancing and song

and that smell again
oddly familiar
fires amongst the dancers
turning dark bodies into supernatural shifting shapes
transforming magic from the flames

and amongst the wood smoke, blaze and glowing embers
another smell, rich, wholesome
brings memories of my own
times of dreams
camp fires and smoke savoured charred meat
but like some distant poor echo of this more real feast

two hundred mouths fed and fed again from one
like mother to the tribe
feeding them upon her cloven breast

eating flesh amongst skin wrapped tents
a people living in a raw live world
whose dreams and life are one

the bushes move again
held breath breaks into the sound of muffled laughter
between the swaying branches
a face
a girl
bright painted
sun darkened

a fire of twigs
string strung bow

but proud and strong
daring danger and life
like those braves
life hungry
death challenging

heart beating with the dance

dream time or real time
beginning or destination
seed start or heart home

I wake

it is real

in progress, December 2002

I write these words in the run up to Christmas and although this was not at all in my mind I realise reading the words that they do seem apposite thinking of the one who came bloody and screaming into this world, to feed upon the warm milk from Mary's breast, and then to grow up to feed and give life to all people through spilt blood and broken flesh. I guess that although this was not explicitly in my mind, the knowledge of that strange story, of the interweaving of suffering and joy, life and death, is always there, the great poem of the universe.

Alan Dix © 2002