The dream comes and the dream goes. Grey skies, ethereal. A shadowed morning, of day as almost night. The scent of spray. The knowledge of crashing wave, yet all is silent. Or almost silent. I can hear or imagine a faint, distant melody. A young woman comforting someone with song. Perhaps herself. A dancer at eternity's edge. I stand and listen, a fist pressed against my chest. Waiting for something. I'm speaking softly, under my breath. I'm calling out names, I think. Ancient names. Into the grey, into the winds of the north. Summoning the sea. The vaulted beams of a church are hidden in the sky. Like the upturned prow of a ship. Above, or beneath. In this dream I imagine angels listening to the wells of the deep.
The solace of bluest eye or buried dress. A life lived beyond torment. What might we endure, I ask myself, if we could spare our beloved ones? A wife? A daughter? All manner of wraith and broken dreaming might we endure. I once thought the grandest thing imaginable was to save another. To carry their burdens, to shield and protect them – even secretly, and at such agonising distance. But perhaps I was wrong. Or almost wrong. You see, love is so fearless. And wild. It seeks, ventures, connects.
Fire on the water. Eternity upon the ice. Dreams of raven pale, or alabaster black. Wells of the deep, where even angels are taught of what it means to be saved. The dream goes, and the dream comes again. As one. Above and beneath. Together and alone. I know this now, beloved. I am unafraid, here at eternity's edge. I saw the truth at last. I saw you on the cliffs one shadowed, ethereal morning. A midnight of the eternal day. A locket in your fist, held tight against your chest. Like a perfect darkened mirror, wearing my poems and my sorrow. Strange words upon determined lips, almost silent. Over and over again. You were softly singing my names, I think. Into the dreaming grey, into the winds of the north. Summoning the sea.