White Rock Dreaming

Through Garreg-Wen’s nomadic hearth, we grew and waned like lichen’s stole on Moel-y-Gest. Her lustrous tablet’s cleaved expanse possessed our sacred streams. Where plasma sands, in lieu of blood’s endured aspects – our angled view – was figured, flawless: all we knew. North-West Nirvana’s alien tongues recite the pest of castle’s: tourist’s transient blight; so too, ewe’s balk like doubtful dunes. Idyllic slants in callow youth, discern, so seldom, tints beyond the rosy realm of spectrum’s scant surmise: stars, not blinkered by levant, lost streetlights. Night’s insight may not imprint the shape of time that teary-eyed stars grant.