This was a female theme. There was a sunlight flickering shadow of a basket on the wall. A stream of faceted brightness that was soft and mischievously light. Folding clouds that were seen so right as small deaths. A timely second straight line shaft as a softly lifetimes lifeline.
I was fading from inside a bruised dream of being scared and long ago. Of times that never happened. A single theme travelling.
He believes I existed in the subtle mathematics of flight. An unwished immortality caught on the leading line edge of a single black wing. A curve of numbers created once and seen forever moving across a mackerel sky.
This is an older village seen. Black houses that were coughing conversations of peat sweet smoke. Smells and sounds that racked together in blue morning mist homes. Swearing at some incidents and singing soft gossip with never a thought for what came after.
Here hearts ached young before legs ached old. Wandering chickens scratched the quantum symbols required. The red haired cattle girl placed shapes just here and just there, complicit. Just the perfect number of stinking fleece hanging. Here a punctuated gibbet of species reeking with secret words. There a black textile loom rattle woven with clattering just so. Gossip, this was the minor theme beyond noise.
I existed here first and died once. Misremembered by those looking in the clouds colluding at sunset. Folding around what was then a small reasonable death. Here I was young, here I was perhaps loved and gave birth, for a short while at least. And here I was placed in air death on the mountainside too young to be experienced and too old to be prettily naive.
In time he wished my coming in plural magic. The placing of episodes and finding the gaps therein. He learned largely and was then assumed into his knowledge. It seems he was right with his fertile wishes. For here I am captured, in his dreams.
He believed it was wishes from music. The dreaming of his dog drugs. The hopes of final madness.
This then is the music of accidental magic. A correspondence controlled immoral immortality.
A tapping of seaweed thatch held down by just the right shaped stones. A wave upon sine wave upon desolate wave. In a remote island sea surrounded by mountains that continue down below in perfect continuity. Here the Stag roared and was noticed. There the Black Grouse whirred widdershins. The curl of a flowing dress meant so much.
A vortex therefore of insignificant things changing with observation. The collection of facts from spectrum lit lights and tallow melting candles .
This was my moon blood music and here I began.to understand him.
Then I rang the small bells to say I existed now in his dream time. Then I slowly allowed his adolescent wishes. For I was young again and here he was right with his sudden male music.
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