Babbacombe Fair

I returned late from Babbacombe Fair
as the dusk consumed the light:
the tents caparisoned lost their colour,
fruits and sweetmeats were but a dream.
To the side of the highway was a woman in white:
a phantasm, a fancy, a shade?

The day I had spent asleep in the shade
of a copse beside Babbacombe Fair
the dreams were sinful - more than a wight -
and I chose between dark and light
succubi and incubi within chopped-logic dreams
and the alchemist chose gold as my colour.

The gryphon rose at the mention of colour,
and the Dragon of Slovenia at shade;
the Phoenix awoke from an ashen dream
of a banquet of Midas-touched fare.
The dragon gave me a candle to light,
and the dreamscape flooded with white.

Bran the Blessed with escutcheon white
waved a spoon and imparted rich colour
gave Pelles a potion composed of light
producing a dumbstruck shade.
This second summoned a lady fair
and dared me to shatter the dream.

The scythe whistled and sheared the dream
the black cowl was bleached to white,
I heard the music of a distant fair
while crows assumed rainbow colour,
then moonlight offered the travellers shade
and the burden of living felt light.

I awoke in confusion from the dream
and my clothes had turned to white.
The cries of the gypsies of Babbacombe Fair
offered horses of every colour.
I passed between them, unseen as a shade
and walked into dusk-pinked light.

The colour of her hair was fair,
if a shade, she seemed most light.
Did I dream like Scipio, and mourn the colour white?