By Ruth Calder Murphy (Arciemme)
Where do I travel, every night on my bed?
Or every day, in my head, when I should, perhaps
be doing other things - more solid things - than “travelling”…
Dimensions open like Aladdin’s cave and whisper seductions
to my imagination -
and hold me captive with Abracadabra and Open Sesame
and actually, with simply a nod and a wink at the glittering chink
in the door, ajar, and the unguarded entrance to my own
Zanzibar… (Or any other destination, far or near,
that isn’t here…)
Where do I travel?
Through all the world; the freezing and burning, the twisting and turning
of galaxies and seasons and oceans - through all the world and all the worlds,
magicked to parallels and possibles and variables and things that make “reality”
Travellers are known by the cast of their glance
and the slant of their soul,
by something barely there - like the shimmering haze of summer -
the way they gaze at thin air and see things there,
the reflection of other skies in their eyes.
Where do I travel, every night on my bed and every day in my head?
I travel the world and travel my soul and travel in and out and through…
and sometimes, in my travelling, I catch a glimpse of you
- all of you - who travel too.