Dreaming Again

I was at some sort or pumping station, which at varying times may have been a logging station, on a river, beside a forest, in a valley. The air was eucalyptus scented, I was rugged up in an overcoat and a scarf. The air was crisp, cold, my breath fogged out as I exhaled. I was discussing, with my mother, the sale of a house to a friend of hers – Pam, who died last year – whose relative was standing near by, listening. Maybe we were standing beside a pile of cut down trees, it seemed to be early morning. Kookaburra's flew passed and landed on the eves of the building. We were discussing the process of house settlement and the adjustment for rates, oblivious to the friend's relative being present.

Then I was stepping over a fast running river, from a lime green mossy bank to the mossy bank on the other side. The river was too wide, in most places, so I had to be careful where I crossed, so as not to fall into the water. Then there was a large group of people around me also wanting to cross, all jockeying for position, after I had crossed. Then I was looking back instructing my mother, who was standing up on the, now up high, other side of the river, how to cross safely.