The music was called Reiki
Now John Christie
Talks of a patch of light
Earlier, yet only a few minutes earlier
I saw the orb of the sun
Half obscured by the afternoon mist
John talks of darkness
Darkness known as memory
Perhaps he is thinking of my dream
My repetitious dream
Repetitions, which unfortunately
I don’t now remember
Yet John seems to remember
All manner of people
Even those who talk of spiritual collaboration
The photographs, for you might not see them
Are of trees, and hedgerows
And fields, with crops and lakes
The artist’s date in this way
Comes to fruition
That is to say, it turns full circle
