I dream of a lonely urban strand beneath a barren sky. Through torn fences and empty yards, they appear. One by one, holding candles to the sun. Light the clouds on fire.
They have claimed this place as a second chance. They are architects. They speak to me of history. Of the stories there behind boarded windows. They are gods of scratch skilled in alchemy. Always clear on their purpose.
They say, ‘here is where your story begins’.
So I follow them across the city to an abandoned cathedral where no one prays, hop-scotched iron bars crisscross below roofless buildings. Ragged curtains billow; ghosts on stage in a parking lot garage. Inside a wrecked grocery store, a tree has broken through the foundation and reaches defiantly upwards. We come to a great room with a mirrored wall; distant figures reflected.
‘And these are days to treasure’.
I watch expectedly as the figures move towards me, aware that my time with them will be brief. Then, as I search for an exit, I turn realising that the gods have left me here. They have gone to pour over blueprints. To gather tools. To find their compass.
Outside the sky is ablaze with hope and despair. I see the world dying and being reborn. The cells of the city are restructuring.
I feel a cool wind blow through the open window, touching the dream as it swirls and falls into misty images and I am moving through its hazy layers to the surface, upwards towards consciousness, upwards towards this new sun, while the clouds fall as embers at my feet.
‘This New Sun’ (c)2025 Deaborah Rise.
Original version first published in ‘At Love’s Altar’.
All Rights Reserved