The Ochre Blonde (A Dream) Poem by Jay Blue

Across the fields of mists she rides, in quickened step, as thundered ghost, flashing grey to white in tides, between the shadowed elms and posts. Her ochre hair in fury's fire eclipsing sun upon her wake, yet glides above in liquid lines, beneath, her courser's muscles quake… into the wood and gone.

...

What is this dream that comes to me, what is this deft remorseful scene, as if I own the blame for all, yet nothing I can find, or seem to grasp within that fleeting flash? Who is she? Why? Where did she go? What brings such hastened fury here, within the dreams I ought not show?

The scented mist clings as I wake to urban bed and city scape. The musk of dewy forest floor fills my senses hours more. But nothing haunts me like her fire, dressed in white and flaming hair, racing through the glinting sun, purpose bent, relentless stare…

I'm mad, I've surely gone mad! Haunted! Ghosts of ancient realms! Yet oddly feel I've been there, and fear I've something more to tell, or stop her, or meet her, or beg for truce from things gone wrong! But morning brings the city's thrum. The image fades soft and long, like shadows caught in acrid film, always there, but somehow gone. I do not know how long they'll still… but haunting hopes I'll ride along. Upon that grey and ancient mare, to feel her rush, to smell her hair…

Enough!

I fear my sleep, that crazed I've come, yet hope to steep in dreaming's sum.

I pray for peace and empty sleep, I cast my faith in modest streams, I know I'll live beyond the deep of ancient mists and woods in dreams…

But never shall I dream beyond, her flashing white, her ochre blonde.