The night cast shadows on the landscape
pierced by a spire which rose to heaven
and the golden glow of moon's full light.

Passing a tree knarled and twisted,
its clawed roots clinging to the rocky hillside,
was a lone traveller bent from the sack he carried.

He wore a tall cap full of stars,
their points straining for freedom
from the fabric which contained them.

On a staff fashioned from a straight branch
he leaned with bony fingers.

For one so burdened he seemed content,
with a sly grin and mischeivious eyes.
His brows were arched in humorous irony.

"What are you carrying in your sack?", I inquired.
My curiousity could no longer be contained
for I watched as luminous bubbles
slowly descended from a tear in the bag
onto the ground where they burst on stones.

"Dreams", he whispered. "Some large, some small,
I carry them all."  His laugh echoed on the night air
then faded as mist down the valley below

"How much for a dream?" I tentatively asked.
"Dime a dozen in coin", he chuckled.
"But they cannot be sold but for the price of pain."

He then continued on his journey, the bubble dreams following behind him.

Halfway down the steep slope
he turned to give me a wink and a rueful smile.

(c) Linda Gayton 2006