Wraith Dreams

I watch milk clouds in my tea. Like Mann's Gustav von Aschenbach I, detatchedly, admire beauty in teacups, behind counters, seated in the British sun, strolling like continentals on coastal pavements. In my negligible rented bedroom I have come to emulate Hesse's Harry Haller and await a future Magic Theatre. 

This is my life now, Albion June sun teasing my wooden Art Cafe tabletop, familiar yet unaccustomed. I am a be-masked discordant wraith within the ring of Peter and Paul's, engulfed in drifting shorelines of memory, lingering dissonance, adrift, a refugee in my own land, a place of The Green Man, Herne and The Goddess. A place of ancient charms, sweet magics and dreams.