The Old Train of Melbourne

We all should escape to Melbourne,
away from here,
away from people like clocks
their metal clicking,
rusting and ticking
into the asphalt earth.

Here in Melbourne,
a cranky old kind train,
whistles from your childhood dreams
a soothing lullaby that hops across the lake
to caress our tired skin,
gently undressing our roots.

Everything,
including Mr. Train,
and our dreams and summer skin,
breath in awe the presense of the Atlantic,
our home , my birthright,
the dream before this one,
and into which all of this and us awake.
Thats why the air has the colour of drowsiness
just right before waking up.

And, as I sigh,
wondering what use words have,
or what they mean,
sea drops dissolve throughout my being ,
whispering thoroughly:
you are but a shore,
your dreams an ocean bed.
"Just let it be".