Scattered Dreams
In the scattered dreams of fields, the long and languid furrows fill, while ghosts of yesterday sleep in, the hollowed dreaming of the still.
In broken pots and rusted coins, on tools and gems and splintered bones, mute voices calling from the void, their stories told in piles of stones.
In notes and grids and plastic bags, lie fragments of the lives long lived, such clues and hints so small and vague, lie enigmatic in the sieve.
