A woman singing arias on a high platform on a truck parked on a cold and windy November day. Her voice flowing with the gusts keeps becoming obscure, becoming wind. Will she fly turning through the air like a Chagall angel, lift and float in the lightness of being?
You haunt me. Is it that we fly together where it mingles, rebounding off each other, an undulating pattern of togetherness that's different to the separateness that's ongoing?
Who are you as the hours unfold across the tableau of time? When do you come bounding from that sky of vivid pastel colours?
This coalesquing of ours in various patterns and never stopping and always moving and reconfiguring, our agile dance across the expanse.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
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