Anywhere but here

He dreams;
of drowsy, cicada-strung olive groves
and patiently standing
whilst his panniers fill;
of midnight in the desert
and a child’s cry hushed to silence;
of damp sand beneath his hooves
and chubby, ice cream scented fingers
patting his nose;
of corn and carrots;
of having flesh and fur
and of flicking his ears;
of being real
and of being
anywhere but here.