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