Yellow Ochre Pond

I used to dream of yellow mud, well more like yellow water stained with yellow ochre clay, so vast, in it I felt so good. In this I swam, just like an eel, in creamy dream of yellow feel; other people swam about as shoals of fish , or netted trout. Ochre pressed against my skin like custard spread on rubber thin, I spun my body round and round like a crocodile does in his pound. In this dream, I felt so free the me in there, was the me in me, shoals that swam around my pond, were souls, unfound, on solid ground. Decades pass and I can see, the me in there, that’s the me in me, but nowhere now can I retrieve, that creamy, dreamy fantasy.