Dreamers, my Darling, are Kings of the earth, lost as they are in the clouds,
Conjuring magic from out of the air, weaving  mystical spells through the shrouds.
Shrouds effervescent and writhing with life, mythical movements of mirth
Threaded throughout in intangible weave to render this fabric of Earth.

Dancing in lyrical splashes of waterfall, bubbling in sunshine on stone,
Moss covered igneous softest creation, emerald as crystals of Rome.
Where would thy tread in this vaporous creation, would thou intrude on the scene?
Bursting this bubble of magical splendour would render thee, Sir, as unclean.

Tip toeing through tulips so softly and tender, so sensitive there to the touch
For Dreamers are few viewing grandeur anew….
I remind you, dear Sir, of as much!

M.
17 December 2018