her feet are stained with dreams

There is no place for the wander-hearted woman; she belongs in placelessness. She finds her rest only in the wistful yearning for somewhere else. Over the sea to where warm lights speckle the far dark shore - but not beyond the lights into the homes, the actual rooms. Over the other side of the hill - but only in imagining, not in the reality of some valley with shops, hedges, avenues.

She collects possibilities, as if they are feathers or shells, stones or knotted white threads from old clothes; she brings them out from her pockets every day and wishes she was far-awaying. But not the actual far away.

 And the world may be a dream, or she may be a dream, and she doesn't really mind which.


  1. I think perhaps we are all but dreams, infinitely finite.
    Beautiful post.

  2. "and she doesn't really mind which." I am glad for this, because otherwise the wistful, dream-bound, pocket-knotted woman would be melancholy instead of filled with dreaming--how fine the thread between the two. A name immediately came to mind as I read this: Aislin--which means dream; vision in Gaelic and is pronounced ASH-ling.

    Beautiful--everything about you and the space you create on the web is pure loveliness.♥

    1. Aisling is one of my favourite names :-) Thank you