Dreams are like the old stories where wolves are seekers always running, and women carry fire in their bare hands and light the dark paths before them.
Old stories hold that the birds will fly all the miles of the world to tell your secrets to the rising moon, and men will walk over oceans of ice to find one truth.
Drink in the heat of an ancient sun
held in the cold fire of water rising
from earth and rock
Spilling over your cupped hands
and drawn to lips and tongue
Pouring water’s memory
of the azure mist it fell from
into the chalice of your flesh
Turning your eyes skywards
for the freedom it was born of
Poetry, short stories revealing mystical inner emotions flowing through our veins – then cascading over the oceans of our time and spaces.