Not identical

Would our dreams be the same?
the water rising, the ground tilting and rushing, the gentle touching?

And the fear?
fear of drowning, falling, loving?
fear of the black dog? which returns to heel
again and again.

Is the first sweet linnet enough
to wipe the mire from the heart?
exposing the unsullied tender flesh,
blinking, newborn, into the sunlight.

For him, Is the nascent bluebell, the precocious dandelion,
a promise of reprieve from a long tough winter?

Does climbing the hill, to arrive breathless,
high, make him feel like flying?

Would he look upon the night sky for answers?
A multitude of questions for every star,
or does the night live within, unfathomable, uncharted, unseen?

Will hearing the laughter of children gladden his heart,
whilst the chasm opens with appaling depth?

Does he lie in the space between dreams and waking, and wonder,
where is the rest of him?