Many a times I have paddled in the still waters of your dreams,
While you lie there, closed, curled, tight, hard, like an oyster.
Your shell pink caution, weaving over my restless feet, as they cut deep and sharp in the white foams.
The sea gulls fly above my head
A brilliant ballet in the crepuscular gloom of twilight.
The grey shimmer, crowning the whirlpool of old desires
Going round and round and round,
Pulling my feet into the dark promise
Of reprieve and reclamation.
A white cloud,
And a new sail of hope.