Trader Horne
Morning Way

That early mist cradled those thoughts,
of fir tree memories blown by dew,
which like spores now slowly and silently surfaced in the drawers of memory
in that magical Epicurean enigma.
In the early hours of the morning, they had seen the Albatross gently take flight
and from the shadow cast by its wings mocked the archers
and joyfully shaded the tips of the skyscrapers.
Adrift in that dream, of that radiant morning
with the sun's needles in the eyes darkening the world,
from the other side of the river and that ancestral vision,
of that little girl dressed in sky-blue satin smiling
a brilliant and shimmering silhouette veiled among the fronds of those water lilies.
And from that shore, the sound of that Song,
of its Young Apollonian Enchantment,
that kaleidoscope capable of stirring the rainbow,
that aimless wandering adrift in dreams wandering,
accidentally discovering among many that Astonished Path, continuing to run, laugh from morning to evening
until out of breath.
Before night gently descends
and covers everything with its mantle of stars,
walking all evening wrapped in the gentle summer haze.
That Lost Road.

Dreaming threads of nightmare.

It is time to wake up and throw away
the last remaining sheet
The sunlight slide down the back
It is dripping on the gray
It's time to look at the rising light
Revealing the way of the morning
The dreams are fading
Now it's almost noon
And then it's afternoon
The leaves are crawling.
(Morning Way)