our landscape trembles
in a storied web
worn cold with weather
whitewashed for another day
the door opens and shuts
waiting for her
the immortal one and her music
played under a cloud
of the church organ
a hundred years old
sun behind a cloud
piercing, transparent
folded in the leaves of grass
in a dream 
of another world
daytime lullaby
in the meadows around our feet
grown free
until they carry us off
in a child’s dream
whisked to another time
in the pre-dusk hour
when light begins to turn
to a nighttime dream
carved among the woods
in shadows etched in ink
as night unfolds
on the skulls 
of whitewashed lies
dark waters
burst in the moonlight
of distant dreams
made once more
on the bed of useful lies