In the Dreamtime

Beautiful photo art by Steve, The Unknown Gnome

Swimming in dreamtime,

she follows the songlines of the ancestors

across the bare brown desert of the heart

towards the mountains.

On the other side, where the ley lines meet,
all green and golden,
a power place,

lies the great sea, silver and shimmering,

and singing with ten thousand voices

of the ten thousand things

that comprise the dharma path.

In this dream,
there are the haunted cries of wolves, of owls,
of ancient spirits,
and the deep green forest is alive, awake, 
and talking in tongues.
It whispers to her soul
where are you?
why are you not here?
Trees reach out their arms for her,
and she is drawn there
as surely as a murrelet is drawn back to its nest
from across the shining water.

Wild Woman rides the winds of hope
in this dream,
looking down on all that she loves:
 green bearded old Grandfather Cedar,
the roar of the waves,
the caw of the raven,
imperious piercing eagle-cry,
the long white beaches
stretching to Forever,
and her, above, exulting,
in the tangy salt sea air
flying along the shore.

So many impediments between her 
and her heart's home,
in the real time. 

But in the dreamtime, one is always There,

cradled by the sleepy forest,

curled in the rootbed of an ancient cedar,

beside a small tender wolf-pup

with shining eyes
and joyous yipping heart,

mist wrapping softly around them

in the fresh new morning,

and the sound of the soft waves, 

lapping, forever,
forever,

endless and eternal,

in her heart.