Small boats in a harbour on a foggy morning
Mellors sighs and turns. Then turns again, and again, asleep but restless.
He's dreaming, but the dream is not taking him along his usual paths, paths that are made of green and gold and brown, depending on the season. This way is different.. Its palette is made entirely by shades of grey and this place smells just of sea and mist, as if earth, the solid brown earth he's used, plays no role in it.
In the dream he moves along waterways, feeling the very ground shift and sigh under his feet.
He creeps closer to the walls of the old buildings, but they offer no comfort.. The water seems to have permeated them too, making them a no man's land, suspended between sky and water, with only a distant memory of what earth really is.
The same cold clamminess is on his skin when he wakes up abruptly, the dream still lingering with him, making him sit up in bed and look around to make sure of his whereabouts.
Then a warm arm reaches out for him and he's grounded again, he's home and the waterplace in the dream fades.
He's dreaming, but the dream is not taking him along his usual paths, paths that are made of green and gold and brown, depending on the season. This way is different.. Its palette is made entirely by shades of grey and this place smells just of sea and mist, as if earth, the solid brown earth he's used, plays no role in it.
In the dream he moves along waterways, feeling the very ground shift and sigh under his feet.
He creeps closer to the walls of the old buildings, but they offer no comfort.. The water seems to have permeated them too, making them a no man's land, suspended between sky and water, with only a distant memory of what earth really is.
The same cold clamminess is on his skin when he wakes up abruptly, the dream still lingering with him, making him sit up in bed and look around to make sure of his whereabouts.
Then a warm arm reaches out for him and he's grounded again, he's home and the waterplace in the dream fades.