I dreamt a wave
that obediently rose,
from stormy seas
under the auspices
of harsh crying birds.
Shock of emerald,
a glass mountain.
Harder than
the diamond scarring
of our corporeal ways.
An ending of walls,
this wave is that.
As it scrapes the
troposphere’s edge.
A stretched horizon,
howling green, a
tumble of spite
and sea-fish.
And I cartwheeled and
spun as a dervish would try.
Mystical, I wind my ways
through dead trees and cars.
With the debris to join
a sweet vitus dance.
To worship in the roots
of ripped up trees.
And through sea roads
I observed my ruin. For
this physicality is beyond
the reach or the endurance
of my wildest imaginations.
(c) Dai Fry (th June 2020.