Vision

At the foot of the greatest oak in the forest is a marble slab, over which pure water bubbles. The light is dappled by sunbeams piercing the canopy. There is a tabernacle with a sacred book, whose words are written faint and small on pages of human skin. The words shift and change like mist above the spring. Lilies stand in a silver vase on the altar, and all around great swathes of bluebells scent the air with faint, cloying sweetness.

Sometimes, like today, the sound of the wind in the trees is monstrous, a swarm of winged creatures. Sometimes, like today, the sound dies to a susurrus, and the music of a horn may be heard from the greenwood.

Then you may gaze into the waters and see, perhaps, a steam train, or a white heifer, or a daisy chain. Pass beyond them. Touch the people, the boy with his notebook, the god, the schoolgirl worrying about bleeding.

There are no bars to block your return, no portcullis, no iron door, no wall of dressed stone; but beware. For the thoughts of the people will bind you with gossamer, each thread so fine, finer than alpaca, each thread so soft, softer than down, comfortable bonds, comforting bonds, covering, smothering, stifling, until the dream engulfs you, the dream of meaning, the brightly coloured images that flicker faster and faster, offering beauty, talent, wealth, intelligence, thrills, thrills, horror, ending, decay and emptiness, an ungainly shuffle into dementia and death.

Beware.

Stay close to the sky. Look often on the stars, the Milky Way like a bridal veil strewn with a million tiny diamonds.

Stay close to the wind. Do not wonder whence it comes, or whither it goes. It is enough that it blows.