Last night I dreamt of home.
I was stranded in the Moors. The ones my gypsy grandmother had always told me to avoid at night. One false step, one little trip and you’ll find yourself in sinking mud or ponds disguised as ice rinks.
The mist will creep over the rolling hills to greet me, and I am reminded of stories of fog monsters that would haunt me from my window as a child. I watch the low lying cloud roll…covering my world in mystery. Transforming my daylight playground into a maze for lost silly little girls.
In the dream, I am in the middle of this barren grass lands. Every rustle of the long grasses has me looking to the invisible horizon. Desperately searching for that moor mist, the kind whose tendrils wrap round my vision and mask my hand from sight. I see the white rise, and feel my stomach lurch…I won’t find my way home, not tonight.