Stone Clothing from an English Potter
A Circular Tale of a Dream Vision

by Kris Sherwood

Dreams have been known to sometimes provide us with glimpses into the future and even to the distant past. They can be precognitive or clairvoyant in their content, and reveal things we only understand many years later. Throughout my life I’ve had dreams that have given me clues and images, both metaphorical and literal, that I may not have understood at the time but that manifested in some way later, and that I recognized from something I’d seen in a dream. Often at the time of the dream it left me with a knowing that something significant had been communicated, sometimes it was seemingly very trivial. For years I kept a dream log and have documented numerous examples that I may collect into a book at some point; many of them foreshadowed Crop Circle images and events. In sharing some of this I hope to help confirm to others how the mysteries of consciousness and precognition are of a timeless and holographic nature and can manifest in subtle and extraordinary ways.

While sorting through old papers recently I rediscovered a dream journal, and an original draft of a poem I had written many years ago, while a very young and wistful aspiring poet living in Southern California, that describes a past life I felt I had lived in England: the land many of my ancestors are from.

Embroidery Depicting Dover Harbour
Created in the 1850s, by Samuel W. Buckham
(Kris Sherwood’s Great-Great Grandfather)
while in the Royal Navy.

Remarkably I also had recorded a dream in the journal that I’d had in the same week of writing the poem, in which I saw an enigmatic title carved in stone. In that dream (original notebook excerpts at end of poem), set in an “open field”, I experienced a metaphorical death and rebirth, symbolizing reincarnation and the theme of the poem. After waking and writing down the dream and the title, I soon realized the title was meant for the new poem I had written; possibly not my most distinguished literary work, but definitely of profound implications to me. I never forgot the dream or the poem’s title and many years later when I met Ed, the very hour I first arrived in Wiltshire, I intuitively knew he was my “English Potter”.

‘Studio Potter’ Plaque
Photo Copyright 1992 Ed Sherwood

A Selection of Ed’s Pottery
Photo Copyright 1992 Ed Sherwood

I later learned he is also, synchronistically, actually a trained ceramicist, or potter, and is known to some of his friends as “The Rock”! I have since learned more about my, and Ed’s past lives, that has answered some lifelong wonderings, and have seen countless synchronicities and dream images manifest in relation to the Crop Circle phenomenon.

Stone Clothing From an English Potter

by Kris Weber (now Sherwood) at 21 yrs of age

(Transcribed as originally written, typos and all)

Like the night air
drifts the warm scent
of jasmine in
occasional clouds
that bring memories
of other nights
when it’s dream vapor
touched magic to the air;

So is the invisible spirit
that runs through my mind
taking my attention out of reach
of my will for fleeting moments.
A soft veil of daydream
drops over my head.
By whose hand it’s held
I don’t know.
Not like the jasmine
is its presence detectable.

So, I am touched by a hand
that brings visions
of things I have not seen;
memories I have not made.
They force me to search
for the one whose eyes I will know.

No other touch will reach my heart.

I must live where my love can flow
free over the land that will
roll to the shape of my arms.

Where daisies shine their open faces
back to the sun that grew their roots.

Where the wind blows dancing leaves
over ruins in stone that have fallen
ages ago, and the tender green vines
reach to possess part of their grandeur. 

Here, where silent bugles tear the
midnight air, that doesn’t know
an age has passed;

Here, where the gulls trace patterns
on the sky, and the cow plods
across the pasture;
where a freckled boy sits and ties
straw into a broom on the back porch
of his dear family’s house,

Here is where I feel my home.
Near the green cliff that looks
like a broken edge of a cookie
crumbling into the sea.

I know the echo of footfall
in a corridor of damp stone walls.
The sight of unfurled flags thrills me,
and in dreams I know the
mist over a sleeping city,

huddled in the cup of the lands hand,
where a dog barks, boldly unseen
as I pass on round-stone streets,
lined with haloing lamplight,
to the water; where
worm-holed boat hulls
bob with the fitful sleep of the sea.
Creaking masts threaten to
tumble into the lapping water.

The smell is of sea-water soaked wood,
and kerosene, and starfish, and musk.

Through fish reeking nets
hung high on the pier
I see the perfect pearl moon
that has forever watched the rush
of man’s changes below.
Wisely unchanged he watches me too.
And under his sobering, father eye
I feel like a frivolous child;
whose salty, harvest reaping nets
have turned to window screen
and the spectrum of sea fragrance
has become only the
fumes of the freeway.

So I lower the curtain
 and turn my eyes to the
plasterboard wall
and fall into sleep,
where the wind gaily
blows the scent of wild heather
through my hair.

* * *


The following excerpt is from my original dream journal of many years ago, as dreamed and written in the same week as the poem.

“With party horns, confetti, and John Lennon, we are hiding in an open field behind a stone wall waiting for the end of the world – nuclear war…a bomb falls but is not atomic. We survive blast due to heavy clothing and I feel reborn.
In a flash - I saw carved in stone this phrase “Stone Clothing from an English


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