The poet’s dream
has flesh and bone
soil and stream
brick and joist
until the moment
when, on waking
he finds articulation

It is vapour now
and dispersing
a story confounded
orphaned with a clang
by abrupt daylight.

He opens the curtain
wipes a keyhole
in the condensation
and beyond the glass
lies a world
of swollen air
white with baffled noise
and sharpness calmed

purity, defiled only
by bloody carrion
near the briar patch
and the unnamed
dotted road, laid
by a padding rabbit
on its diurnal sally
to investigate
the lettuce bed.

A little later, he will
wake the children, bask
in their gasping delight
but for now
it is a private viewing
invoking memories
of past snowfalls.

Who needs fickle dreams
when this is what wakefulness brings?


2 thoughts on “Tingling

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