What are they?
Figments of overactive minds,
Or images of things to come.
Waking in the morning
With ruffled hair and
Was it an amble through a secluded bluebell field,
Sun glimpsing beyond leafy branches.
Steps softly pushing against blades of green,
Awash in a clear azure sea.
Waves rippling over rounded pebbles,
Rays of sunlight bobbing over turquoise skies.
Downy clutches of snowy white cloud,
Wafting and filtering the scorching heat
From mopped brows,
Arched over train tracks,
Where engines rattle through,
Furnishing throngs with
A route to nowhere.
Dream a little.
Journey through hope.
Promises are there for the taking.