Flashie Friday/Saturday/Sunday contribution, by me.
The compass rose points up and down
Along the river’s banks,
A border gurgling ‘mine’ and ‘thine’
Dividing into ranks
The whole of everything and all,
Joined here by hope’s stone arch
A treaty-truce, a gathering,
Where friend, not foe, may march.
And yet, unseen by common eye,
The compass rose does turn,
The selfsame arch becomes the mark
Where ‘dream’ and ‘real’ both yearn
To mate and part and mate again
As once in times of old
The dreaming walked in broad daylight
And real, the stories told.
A door between two worlds, perhaps,
A tenuous join at best.
A way across for entering in
May open on request.