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The Dream

I fly in the sky
and watch
a strange row of houses
that are all standing
at a narrow island
in the middle of the ocean.
The tail of the waves
licks the windows.
Only ancient men live there
who knit magic sweaters
in their spare time.
The jumpers have
the following quality:
Once you put it on
you become as ancient
in your mind
as the old men.
You stop worry
and doubt flowing
through your mind.
You are just a delicate old man
with agile fingers
and a feel for
the pulling of the paddle.

Now there are none in the village
the old men are all off
to the mercy of the ocean.
I have lost my wings
and therefore I get seated in a boat
I feel the tail of the ocean
lick my cheeks
as I row
into the fog of not knowing.
Alone in the craft
of the oldest
of the old.

Then I wake up
still with salt battered cheeks
and I laugh to myself
take a passage to the life
with dreams
as a spice in
flavourless existence.