Through The Shroud

I dreamt of flying,
since years gone past.
I remember, flying over the river,
a kite, a sharp triangular wing.
Moving through the mist,
with an ethereal grace, the tether point 
is hidden and unseen.

I continue down wind and upstream,
through the tide of unconscious flow.
The banks give way, my whereabouts unknown
 as divides fall away; I dive through the
rippled surface, down into the depths,
deep down through the shroud.

Deep dreams of dead
years, the end signified through
neither lift nor fight.
I dreamt of flying.