In the deep valleys tucked in between creases of land
folded earth and jagged ridges climbing high towards the sky
there is a hidden trail I follow.

I am strapped on and saddled
onto the body of a horse.

Phantom image, steady steed. I grasp the reins as it guides me
towards another bend, steep steps in the rhythm of click clacks
tick tock the sun is a lamp incubating the top of my head.

We follow the torching light illuminating the way until finally
the path slithers among grassy hills,
a stream running alongside us
scattered flower bulbs
splashes of sea
the scent of salted wind.

Perfect landscape
as if crafted for photograph or painting,
obscure enough for private collection
valuable enough for auction.

We gallop as a unit:
a picturesque image of everything the world should be.

Woman and animal
why is there no one else on this beach? No one else to join
this living dream I’ve stumbled upon.
I’m Alice in Wonderland, Lucy in Narnia—
where are the rest of us?

Where are the dreamers and the believers
the riders and the travellers? Stuck in an eternal sunset
perhaps they too were drawn
by the rapture of performance.

It’s just me and my Phantom trapped on reeling shorelines
and gently bowing underneath collapsing light.


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