even in the stillness
there is sound
dripping from the eaves,
falling down a cheek
from the overflowing lake.

in the trees
there are dreams
built like timber cabins;
in a clearing by the sea
the spray plays the invisible air.

all dissolves in time,
with wear and dedication.
it’s a nice illusion
while it lasts, she says.

time
passes

before my eyes
i am a child again,
alone,
tiptoeing across the ice…

© phillip mellor 2015