Number 19 Dream

We dream deeply,
walking pebble beaches.
Stones of bluish grey, 
striped honey beige, 
red tenement sandstone, 
granite sparkle, 
twist and turn beneath our feet.
Owls swoop from the night, 
as we walk 
across soft mossed hills 
to a dawn red-hued sky.
We dream of kisses, 
cheek caresses, 
gentle and tingling,
then hard and full of want.
Boats roll 
on tumbling waves, 
sailing to anywhere,  
as we look for others 
to haul onboard.
We lick white foaming beer 
from lips, arms resting 
on sticky wooden bar tops, 
our ears full 
of talk, 
our eyes full 
of each other.
We dream.
We wake.
No dreams can come true here.
There can be no miracles.
Cradled screens fulfill 
our ersatz lives.
The hours busy us, 
the day zooms with calls, skypering with chat.
How long till our stones, 
our hills, the owls, 
the sailing boats 
become mythical?
Ah kent them once. 
Just stories.
The virus infects our dreams, reduces them.
If it's not through a screen, 
how is it real?