Dreaming with the Forever Gone.

Getting and spending wasting our living  
slaves not to bodies needs but greedy eye
those fancying orbs set up high see things
beyond hand's grasp grows to be, highly prized!
 
Long before written records could be wrote
or passing time told by brass-necked tin clocks
the prize was on the hoof and in the wind
and hunger for it gripped belly and throat,
the price of that prize, sweat and thrown flint rocks
their only way to reach it, swift lithe limbs...
 
O to live again in our human spring
I hear this often in rhyme's soft writ sighs,
to have surfeit of things honest toil brings
wrought from beneath those ancient boundless skies.
 
Supping Adam's ale, wearing Joseph's coat,
stitched by Adam's needles, enough to mock
the fiercest weather, silver ermine trimmed,
bringing home newly slain black mountain goat
provender, round which your family flock,
just as their setting sun, begins to dim...
 
Richer by far then than banker or King
more satisfying than supersized buys
sweeter than advertisement jingle sings
" to have our product you would kill, or die;"
"You'll never be alone with filtered smokes,"
"food cooks superior in our fine crocks,"
"be sure to buy our triple filtered milk, it's skimmed!"
"And things go better with..." Oh, it's a joke,
on our spendthrift life, spent this way, tick-tock,
to keep some faceless folk's gold coffers, filled...
 
O to be with these long-gone folk, trading,
as they spend obsidian blades on deer hides
swop bird-bone flutes for pretty ankle rings
I desire both behind sleeping eyes...
 
But dream of fine white seamless buckskin cloaks
trimmed with white rabbit tails and black tailed brock
so softly supple will twirl, craft-folk thinned,
on which I'm allowed brief envious strokes,
for such, I would disdain all future frocks,
as I'm dressed, stroked by fur, yes, from the skin...
 
And, perhaps, meet an alien species
our neighbours then, we named the Neanderthals,
what words would we share, ideas what thesis  
on meeting those ancient woman and her man?
 
Those who were here many ages before us
what wonders would they be able to reveal
perhaps they would teach us the secret of trust  
and our inherent hatred begin to heal?
 
And secrets hidden in ancient flora
and tracks and trails leading to mind's at ease
and I ache to keep on dreaming this sweet dream
but wake to blow my flute 'gainst life's, fierce breeze...