Dreams lie in coiled heaps;
reposing serpents,
asleep for months
yet ready to strike;
to swallow some new idea
that passes too close,
digesting it whole
in ongoing slumber.
Last season’s skin
is consciously shed;
emerging sleek and fat
into a sun-drenched present;
emboldened colours
nailed to the mast.

The journey back is
not always homeward,
the return not always
as planned.
Raising sails then
dropping anchor as
harbour is found in
familiar shorelines;
ports departed on
countless occasions
that have proven themselves
always safe, always true.


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