The White Doe

I often have the most vivid, fantastic dreams so nearly real that I can reach out, touch, taste and smell them. Unlike the more mundane ‘little’ dreams – in which I’m frequently, for reasons entirely my own, stealing cutlery! – these are special somehow, with a depth I can’t comprehend.

It’s like these ‘big’ colourful, sensational dreams are fulfilling a purpose that I remain blissfully ignorant of. And they’re full of recurring characters that I’ve spent so much time with they’re almost like friends; one of these being Beatrice the white doe.

She’s large, glows like a light bulb, has golden eyes and antlers (despite being a doe), and speaks in the softest female voice imaginable. And when she says follow I just can’t help myself…

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The White Doe

Uncanny as in tales of old,
She’s as pure white as a dream-form,
Casting a haze, a blushing vision.
Her saintly shape seems filled with light.

That innocent’s face, its ethereal nimbus,
Her kindling look absolves my doubts.
Her eyes are golden globes of knowing;
Firm softness, grace, and trials ahead.

The willow limbs are fragile stilts,
Hard muscles sheathed in shining light.
Atop her head sit gilded branches
Their palmate tines proof of her lore.

Crowned with exception; ignoring triteness,
She disregards with easy poise.
But still her gilt eyes fix on me,
Their liquid centres molten ore.

I can’t escape the task she charges,
The path is marked with dreamer’s logic.
She turns and leaves with wraith like stealth,
I’m in pursuit, not far behind.

She carves a trail between the bracken
Almost unreal, a will-o’-the-wisp.
Lord knows I’ve no choice but to follow –
I’d chase her through the jaws of hell.


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