On waking

after dreams of an Arabian souk

having no money for smoky dancers,

whose sand clad feet slap dusty alleys

I hold a microscopic lizard

he wriggles in my cupped hands

when he leaps away I see

he is skinny as a wire.

A childhood friend not seen in years appears.

There is a bus ride, the bus near missed,

the road skirts perilous cliff edges

looking steep down to a whale-thick sea

where waves rise mountainous.

Yes, on waking

after dreams of an Arabian souk

I rise, slip on my dressing gown

make coffee

thinking – where have I been?