Passing Time

A select vapour from the lake of dreams 
Coloured like vermilion and natural green
Delicate film of luminous sheen
Cupped in reality betw'n fingers lean

Basking in the essence of glimmers that hope
Enough over spilling in the mirrors that slope
Cantering of the engine over camber hill and dale
Nesting doves of whitish grey watching harvest fail

Beckoning of symbols and the stories we were told
Counting truth in happenstance and wisdom of the old
Circling in dancing steps with no rhythm but an echo
Until someone stops and turns around and whispers
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