The blades of night time grasses
shift in and out of focus
as I lay with my head parallel to the silent ground,
secretly observing the moonlike creature
whose fish-belly white feet
are sweeping a tiny current
of crisp evening air over the surface of the field.
Elbows crooked, its cool little hands
hardly make an effort to grasp the icy chains
that are keeping it suspended above
the undulating whorls of dark green.
Its limpid toe-tips absently brush flecks of dew
from the stalks of weeds and wildflowers,
while its eyes, upturned, carefully trace
shimmering droplets of sea glass in the sky.
In a snap,
the buzzing of the dry morning light
crawls across my skin and cracks it,
and with a straining bloodshot eye
I squint past parched and yellow grass,
only to find that the wooden swing
is once more motionless and unoccupied,
until I dream again.