This day had trapped me in its funnel of mists.
My eye lids are heavy, as if I had been swimming in a pond of visual metaphors, filled with Monet’s water-lilies – wisps of inverted colours, mauves sinking in a silt of grey moss, white dissolving within the boundaries of a porous horizon.
It reminds me of a river bed undercut by icy currents, basking in yet un-negotiated hues.
A cone of flowers and water, haunted by reflections of shapes on stilts, moves gently in a rippled echo.
Dawn is near.
Caught within the gorges of this fluidity, I find my own thoughts trickling downwards, through the funnel, into the netherworlds.