Lifting from the river in a gossamer weave the fog come in,
whilst the moon shines in all her majesty,
bushed ever so gently by a passing cloud that shadows the land briefly.
Silhouetted against this back drop, trees that have stood witness to the rivers changing moods.
Paddocks sculptured by man and time.
One wonders of what the SPIRIT DREAMS.
The weave grows thicker and encases the hill,
yet as quickly as it does cascades away and rolls across the pastures.
One can almost hear it whisper to the soul.
One can almost feel this SPIRIT DREAMING.
Sounds fill the body in restful tones,
thoughts become as lazy as the night itself.
One watches as for the first time at the wonders that stand.
Dressing and undressing before eyes and spirits that once were..
Spirits that once rested upon the land and in a time of
SPIRITS DREAMING.
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