In These Lines

It's almost dreamlike, the sun shimmering on the water, faces passing by, the pier hung with flags. I could be anyone, tethered to a silver chord sent out from the yearnings of a distant mind deep in sleep. Or maybe something more exotic made up of the feathery light leftovers drifting down from the wake of a passing angel, the whispery float of dust marking passage to the divine. Everything seems unreal. I cannot measure the shape that contains me, but have become what I behold, shimmerings, shadows, the reflected images moving across a window, the air drunk on the smell of wattle. Now can you see what I have become - this vague notion looking for a way out of a shifting world to live in the lines of a poem.