The Vision (Poetry)

It happened half a life ago
beneath a willow tree
I slept within its thin-striped shade
where such dreams came to me...

Dreams that were not dreams at all
but visions crystal clear
of cities in some far-off land
set in some other sphere.

These cities shone — their towers rose
stones silvered by the sun
I walked those terraces of light
and knew them — every one.

For that was home — or how it seemed —
how else could I explain
my knowledge of each thoroughfare
each alleyway and lane?

I knew those grand old buildings, too
so elegantly planned
the wide and well-kept squares and parks
a cultural wonderland

and peopled busy with the hum
of crowds that swarmed at ease —
talked and laughed melodious
in gardens lush with trees.

The air was fresh with floral scent
the rivers dark as wine
and each day like a festival —
flags fluttered in a line

spread colour — colour everywhere
exotic paintbox bright —
no clouds to spoil the azure blue
or smudge the mountain’s white.

And if I heard that country’s name
it’s lost beyond recall —
such cities I once fancied might
in time decay and fall...

New dreams may come and old dreams fade
but one stays true to me
still vivid after all these years
undimmed in memory.

Like ghosts those gleaming turrets rise
so real I long to be
asleep in that same thin-striped shade
beneath a willow tree

in hope that vision will once more
turn real beneath my touch
then I may walk again that world
my soul has missed so much.