Mother Of The Fruit Of Dreams

He takes the wider view of broken sleep
assured the dreams and fantasies were
real enough. If he recalled them all with
clarity he has the stuff to make a night of
sleep disturbed discretely pay a worthy
fee. But passion fruit defeated his resolve

to write with candour of the one that
lingered longest; a crop disposed with
purple globes of fruit which hang on
vines festooned amongst the shaded eves
resplendent makes no inroads on his sense
of trust. Images were real, the must of

fruit ferment was redolent, the sensual
feel of plump and pliant fruit in hands that
knew the bounty hid within as cogent as a
state of wide awake discerned. And pickers
calls and laughter rang – flashing eyes and
carefree smiles, a yearn that burns to taste

a fruit forbidden as a dream of drowning in
a cataract of luscious flavours. Awakened
to the soft vibrations of those gentle
snores of love, warmth of limbs
impressed upon a consciousness that
merged imagination sweetly with the

break of day as light returns – he finds
no joy in lingered dreams. But why this one?
He turns to hold in arms his love of ageless
reverie – aware she is a flower of rare and
timeless beauty – passion flower to bear
his sons, mother of the fruit of dreams.
© 12 July 2007, I.D. Carswell