Dreamscape: the Princess and her handmaiden

A few nights ago, I dreamt of you.  You were turned away, gaze just below the window sill, sitting on a cushioned footstool of wine-red fabric shot through with gold thread. The dark walnut legs turned and ended in claws, solid. Your legs were turned to the side, resting.  Your back was bare.  The air was warm and still, and the sun spilled over you like golden syrup. The gentle undulations of your body cast warm shadows in the light which moved with your breath.

I brushed your hair.  We were both silent, and the strands of your tresses fell with laughter on my hands: supple, strong, soft, silken. The sun splashed through them like liquid fire.

I sang to you, softly at first, a song rising from deep inside me.  Not in words: when I opened my mouth, birdsong wafted out as if from a primordial jungle, a land across oceans, dreams, and time immemorial. The notes floated in the air above us before dropping to the floor like plump raindrops onto the once smooth surface of a pond.

You see them too. You smile. And that is enough for everything.

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