Upon liminal spheres where dreams are woven,
Adrift between stars and the trees,
I pass closer to the golden dawn.
There’s a warmth beyond the shadow.
I feel the aurum under my eyelids,
And I hope the birds will sing.
Oh, I hope I will hear the birds sing...
Perhaps a knowledge that never comes.
for David Robert Jones (8th January 1947 - January 10th 2016)