Peter a Birthday Gift

Peter (a birthday gift) having not met in this reality knowing him only by words and the images captured like still painted souls in the magic box I am free to dress him in whatever thought captures, as still life in my bag of words. scent of wind and heather precedes the form as it coalesces from the fog of imagery rough coat of tweed in blues and browns carries the breath of gods from distant times the song of the carders the slap of the shuttle as it wends its singular way between the fibres upon the loom. he fills a room with presence hilarities tumble across the threshold laughter greets all gathered there and mystery follows close behind tagging at his coat tails impatient to be etched across white sheets of memory yet like craggy cliffs his brow descends when deep in thought, far away in times unwritten searching for his grail.