Calling

The somnambulist negotiates a cliff-top stairway
carries her invisible apple
like a delicate heart-throb
in her palm
the grey weathered stair-stone
rubbed smooth by the ancients
who came to this pathway
in a different dream.

The night is warm and high summer calls;
cliff-face shadows cast broad shoals into the sea.
Her luminous nightdress can be seen
from across the bay - a lantern descending,
moon-washed and magnetised
by the song-line of waves.

And she is hypnotised in her deep-sleep
by the sea's music.
Her nightdress billows in slow-time
to a glittering plateau
of water beneath her feet
illuminating unseen demons -
serpents and hag-fish
that surface her desire.

The scent-well of rock is calling;
the sea grass and shale is calling.

A sea-dream has lifted her
from a cliff-top bed
guiding her to the rugged edge
of lapping sands
the silver night breeze
caressing a ghost's secret wings
casting the apple before she awakes.