A harvest moon with its pale torchlight announces itself to the failing light, rising above the row of pines standing guard against the eastern skyline. A ragged cedar creeping close to the house claws at the window pane, while the wind sighs and the orange cat dreams.

I lie amidst a tangle of sheets, the old clock ticking out the minutes and hours. It’s now, it’s now, it’s now, rhymes the old clock, and with each arrival of a new moment in the corridor of time, the moment is swiftly relegated to the past, never to be experienced again.

I have lived before, of this I am certain.

I remember another lifetime from days gone by, the same way a tree that’s been stripped of its leaves and left barren in Autumn, recalls another season when summer lovingly wove frothy dresses of leafy green around each delicate branch.

The spaces between one heart beat and the next, and the momentary pauses between one breath and the one thereafter, are the in-between places where memories from another era exist.

When I close my eyes, I can hear bag-pipes wailing on the frontier of dreams. I can smell the pungent odor of peat fires burning bright against dark, muddy banks, dense smoke hanging heavily in the crisp fall air. I can visualize ancient trackways leading from the mountain ranges of the Mounth to the north sea, so close in proximity to Stonehenge that the mystical stones begin exerting an irresistible tug, filling me with an indescribable yearning for a life I no longer live.

You are a silhouette, a lone figure standing in a misty shadow-land. A long ago voice carries on the wind, whispering my name.

I hearken to the familiar sound.