The dreams of Kandinsky

It's a cold dream plucked from the song-lines

a race memory of the wide Eurasian dreamtimes

where winter sunlight gilds birch crowns

into cold wild showers of gold

our dreaming eyes are ever drawn by the far bank  

there the great city shines

haughty and proud under a clean cold sky  

within the formal gothic forms jostle amongst exotic onion domes

all huddling for warmth behind the high curtain walls

petrified suggestions of warmer seasons

southern dreams

of rustling silks and pungent spices

In the foreground

astride and aside a well appointed Palfrey

a young couple embrace

well dressed

self absorbed

they pass us almost unnoticed as they loom from the shadows

the threatening shades of woodland gloom

I know then that this isn't my dream  

for in my dreams all woodlands and horses shine

my cities cast deep shadows without contrast

and have no need of a visual counterpoint

this is an urban dream of an urbane mind  



not in the threatening shade of the northern woods

nor in the songs of a yet complacent people

but in the despairing shadows of the dreamers time

I'd very much like to ask him  

and ride once with him through his dreamscape

the dreamer


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