Haunted, he wears his ghost lightly.
Woven on phantom air
the dream descends like spent ashes.
Singing, with pointed sticks
he marks the wing of the lightning,
as only a father might do.
Entangled in ghost tossed clouds
he follows his fractured dreaming
like a mother’s goodbye.
Haunted and enchanted,
he summons the cast of the moon,
the wash and cry of the sea.
The borders of sleep are burning.
Poem and pastel drawing by Clinock
art rat cafe 
Really love this image John…then along comes your poem and blows me away!
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Thanks Robert, much appreciated as always…
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Loving this pastel drawing John.
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Very good to hear. Thank you Deb.
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