I can see you perfectly,
in between
Autumn.
Picking black chillies and wiping them shiny clean.
It always seems like there's that old belief
Like some truth has returned to wipe the slate clean.
There, in the depths of the dream
Your words are little rescue boats
Firing bright orange flares across my eyes,
They hand me truth
Shaped like fruit
That I eat thankfully.
I receive magical potions
to dilute the dead ocean,
If we're stranded and thirsty.
And when I wake up. I finish off that idyllic dream
With some breadcrums of reality,
a little bitter twist.
And the rest
is (still) love now just to the left,
now whole and surviving on its own.
I will water it, sing to it, never leave it, watch it blossom and grow.
I hope I can fend for it. Out there. On my own.