The wind, the moon, the stars - they rise for us in our dreams. Soft voices take form and whisper of happy times past. There is the distinct, gentle sound of leaves rustling as a memory from childhood stirs and tilts up. I remember running through impossibly tall pampas grass under a tropical sky. Colours vivid straw brown and ultramarine blue with the resolution that only memory can give. Tack sharp I can now feel the sticky humidity and prickly pinking of grassy spears getting into my long socks and between a Clarks leather shoe and soft ankle. When you are 5 years old and have dirt on knee (and elbow), a couple of handy scrapes and a Pirate's dream of gold and silver, all is well with the world.
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