Tracking our dreams

 

A church flies by,

caressing

the heavens, piercing the veil

of now and evermore.

Thunderstuck, the tower weeps,

and in the eyes of the girl sat

tapping away at her screen,

sadness seeps into

a silent wish,

as the countryside

flourishes past

in a restless sleep, brought on

by counting the passing sheep.

 

Is she writing a memoir,

a novel, or working on the train?

Her fingers drum again, like the

rain pelting the carriage

to wake the slumbering dreams.

 

All I know is she is, like me,

away in a dream,

of green swirls

blurring into

the blue comfort

of a blanket unfurled.

 

Fading memories,

and stories blooming into view.

 

But whilst I'm sat here

watching the world

blending the view,

my dreams are bright

for I'm dreaming

of me and 

you.

Sat in our own light,

in our own storyline.

And I think of us, wondering

if reality will grant a wish,

or if the distant rumbles

of thunder are going to crash.

 

Will we one day sit,

happiness in our eyes,

writing our own memoirs

of dreams we will one day

live, or will we sit

like the girl on the train

passing through as our time

takes other tracks?