Dreams and Dragons

- jan-u-wine

Mumma's garden.

It is summer.

I am small enough
to hide
beneath
the grey coolness
of the bench
before the shadowed wall.

The heat-slow'd river's
deep green
whispers beyond the gate….

the sky's hot blue
winks
through the arms
of the trees.

Uncle
took tea with us today…..

In the secret stillness
of my hiding place,
I touch the book
he brought.

Soft-washed grey,
face veined
by twining letters
I cannot read.

They look like the trails of stars,
these letters:
petals,
fallen
from an over-turned
sky-bowl.

Age-worn parchment
opens
upon pictures….

Pictures which fill my mind
even as my sun-hazed eyes
close.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
The grass beneath the bench is
*very* green….

Green
and sweetly damp
with soft earth smell.

Prism'd sunlight,
like a fire's bright flame,
advances upon the path.

My hand lies,
caught
within its amber-hued
web.

It is *far* too bright,
*far* too hot,
to be the light of the Sun.

I cannot move,
can not make
even the smallest
sound.

The grey wall that holds the World
without
blushes pink with fire,
the sweet grass

crisps,

bending before flame-driven
wind.

My hand still lies
outside the small haven
of the bench.


*OH.*

It is beautiful.

It is terrible.

It is the Creature of the book.

Armor of burnished gold,
serpent-eyed,
scarlet-tongued,
it advances.

Is the roughened scale
of its golden hide

hot,

like the flame
it sends,
searching,
before it?

I want to touch it.

I want to look
into its eyes.

I wonder,
as the World
turns to blazed crimson
about me,

I wonder
at all it must have seen…..

All the Ages of the World….

the Stars turning from bright to dim
in ancient skies….

lands and Seas
and people
who are no more.

I want to know those things…..

I want to know…..

I want……
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Warm lips touch my forehead.

A hand, smelling of summer
and lavender,
lifts mine from where it still stays.

Oh, Mumma, I saw a dragon!

He was Red

and Gold
 
and Green…..

and
Fierce,

Mumma.

And Mumma just smiles,
and pulls me to her.

Tomorrow,
I think,
as her heart
beats slow against my ear,

(as the river beyond the gate
runs swift upon the rock)   

tomorrow
I shall find the Dragon
again.

He waits
there….

there,
beneath the grey of the bench,

there,
where my fingers
have made
a soft diamond
of the page's edge.

Mumma?

Do you want to see the Dragon, too?