eclipse Posted October 22, 2018 Share Posted October 22, 2018 The wind moves clouds like a glass blower, rain the fingers of ghosts seeking the residue from whisky coloured dreams. Rain lands on a beach, grains of sands memories from past lives, tide washes into a shell, spirits long to tell the people about their tales of Arran, an empty bottle in the waters the echoing vowel of the sound of Arran, the sea is time's fire camouflaged. Can an island exhale as the night rows away collecting lost tears of those long gone in a bottle, tears on a candle wait for a flame. An island's pen is synchronised with ships sailing into the night Visitors to this island gleam stories that the wind carry's to king's cave from which the moon takes a drink. Red deer sleep -antlers are clock hands, golden eagle reaps following an ancient unchanging protocol, in two straight dives keeping its inner clock alive, wings briefly a bridge between clouds. First whispers of light arrive, keys to unlock a diary-the gorse flowers private narrative. The wind and stories are strong enough to carry the Arran stone through dreams, clouds, across the wings of birds as grey seals preview stars through the sea's glass eye. Thrift flowers grow, arrows frozen between the sun and moon, reverse the flight, inverted dreams of sleepers play out through the evening, thrift flowers exist at a certain height, how far into dreams do sleepers have to go to revive Arran characters of old to have a final dram before catching arrows in empty bottles, whispering final words into glass, throwing the bottles into the sea with the passing shadows of birds. Quote Link to comment Share on other sites More sharing options...
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