Where God Paints The Scenery

I return from fishing feeling guilty of the fish in the pail still alive and kicking not realising it's his prison & he is to be turned into dinner (the freshest fish of all) to find you've fallen asleep by a dying fire I gather its embers together & with my breath breathe life back into it until it cackles & flares its flickering dancing across your still sleeping face the fire greedily devours a feast of twings that only makes it hungry for more! Grasses tickle your nose some tiny bug crawls across your shoulder as if you were only a landscape it labours over and not my angel lost in sleep. I cut & gut the fish (a guilty Budhist) & serve it up on a large leaf tasty & delicious just for you to wake & savour a fish fit for a dreamer.