Drawn from your bed mid-dream
you are vaporous like the bulbous clouds
the hill-like bulges that are cloud-like hills.
You are the man in the background
of Chagall’s Green Violinist
contorted but happy and with no thoughts today.
There is colour in the breeze
a tune in every brush stroke
every movement filled with expectation.
Your levity defies gravity and gravity
cannot force you still. So you rise still higher.
Your naïve wings of puppet strings.
Stay out of reach.
Be weird, be light.