How strange to see my father and mother
sitting at our old breakfast table,
the curtain held aside by my grandson
to reveal homemade jam.
Looking out they know me, know me not,
know me, know me not,
and then the sound of horses,
a vision of them leaping vineyard rows,
a dream within a dream,
the scent of dust,
my feet upon
the road.
18 comments:
your dreams are so special and speaking
Thank you, Laura.
What a lovely dream, William. So simple, and uncomplicated and filled with some of the people you love. I've always said that you even dream as the wonderful writer that you are.
So nice of you, Jan. Thank you.
Your parents, grandson, sounds, smells, memories and real findings - but everything is a dream within a dream.
So beautiful!
Hi, Denise — thank you!
Knowing you, dear William, after reading this poem, I can only say "I must be dreaming!"
Well, old friend, I’d be the last person to suggest otherwise, as, thanks to you, I seem to be in the same glad state myself.
At least, this was a good dream..
Hugs, my dear!!!
Thank you, Monika!
I liked the almost-but-not-quite-revelatory nature of this a lot.
longdayhotshower.blogspot.com
Thanks, Elliot. Such are dreams, at least such are many of mine.
I love how you paint with words my friend...
Beautiful...
All the best William!
My best to you too, Brad! Thanks, and it’s great to hear from you.
your gentle way of revealing we are all behind the curtain with our fingers in the jam jars, always appealing to not only the senses, but pressing upon our linear notion of time.))
xo
erin
Like a shoe that’s come untied. The shoe is still there, the lace, the foot. The hunger.
This is a lurid dream. Vivid. I can smell the dust, i can feel the sun upon my face.
Momo Luna, thanks very much.
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