A suggestion of a flutter in the frail fibres of a feather,
Hanging from a whispered web of thread,
Is it breeze that disturbs the stillness?
Or perhaps the breath is that of a fantasty,
Ambitions painted on some hazy eyes,
Or songs woven in slumber,
Catching in the curves of a charm,
Gently nudging their way into reality,
For long enough to start the softest of ripples,
In a handmade dreamcatcher.