Dream Balloon

I awaken to the sound of old wood creaking,
as though a chair is rocking near our bed.
Then I feel us swaying, slowly, gently,
as though we, our bed and our bedchamber
lie inside a giant bassinet.

This is not our room --
a dying fire glows warmly orange 
with embers in a grate beyond our bed;
the walls are lined with polished wooden planks,
curved and tapered near the top,
as though we sleep beneath a sloping roof.

Two round windows, one on either side,
are wide open, white silken drapes
billowing in wind that dries my sweated skin.
Beyond, the full moon shines, brilliant yellow,
and countless stars swing to our rocking.

I place a gentle kiss upon your head
and slide quietly from bed --
the floor is hard and smooth, warm beneath my feet.
Past the fireplace, I find a wooden door,
a porthole at its center, its latch secured.
It opens of its own accord, without a creak,
and I step through.

A hallway continues to my left, leading
toward a crystal chandelier that twinkles 
above a table in the darkness.
But straight ahead, another door.

The door swings open, I step out upon a deck,
where a salty breeze cools my face and chest,
in gusts that lure me out across the planks.
I look up and shrink beneath a giant sphere,
hovering blackly above, anchored by ropes 
to tall rails around the deck.

A balloon!
Fear gives way to fascination -- I stride 
across the deck and reach the rail.
Far below, a white-capped sea glows yellow
in the moonlight, endless water curving, 
without a hint of land.

This is our vessel, afloat, adrift in darkness,
a wooden gondola, fashioned like a ship,
plowing through unseen waves of air.
Standing near the bowsprit, I see her smoothly
curved hull, festooned with wooden dragons
perched just below the rail.
Their dagger teeth and craning jaws 
leer outward, eyes set with blood red jewels
aglow in the night.

Sand bags hang like grapes, in bunches, 
along the hull, and, aft, flags ripple 
stiffly in the wind.
A spoked brass wheel
turns slowly clockwise, then counter-
by unseen hands charting
courses through the sky.

Am I dreaming, or is this real, 
and will our voyage ever end upon the wind?
Standing at the rail, I stare down into the waves
and wish this journey to last forever,
across the ocean, to exotic lands 
we alone explore.

Then I feel your warm skin upon my back,
your arms encircling my chest.
I turn, without a word, and take you in my arms.
Your eyes glint in moonlight,
your hair alive and charged
with the energy of clouds and sky.
We glide across the pitching, rolling deck,
beneath a tapestried balloon,
two ghosts dancing.

Scott Speck
07/21/2001