blickling hall

dreams and nightmares - no. 113

the cornfield dawn

the air burnt hot rows of corn

bleeding through the crevasse

there was no rain

no air

no sound

the cloud hung still

a humid brooding mass

bruised

and purple streaked

to the ground

in which tiny scurrying insects

danced

among the weeds

and

scorched grass

this was the cornfield dawn

dreams and nightmares - no. 112

layers

we came
to the second red pill
dropped in thin clouds
of a sliced up sky

she was the dry riser
smoking
trains and trams

and marching bands

cut to the heart
of fractured dreams
swimming
in the big heat

and each time we peeled back a layer
another reality
appeared
and turned
itself
inside
out
and
upside
down

and

the leading lines

called us

forever

on