In this endless lockdown I am finding it increasingly more difficult to write. I draw much of my inspiration from the outside world and that necessarily has contracted to what is local, within walking distance and I know I am luckier than most. I have beaches and parks within minutes of my house. I give thanks for that.
All of this is the lead up to this post's poem which is about sleeping or rather dreams.
the night in five segments
1.
hypnagogic patterns
or people endlessly morphing
projected on the cave wall of my skull
always I wonder if I’ve seen them before
weigh their significance
fall into the black
2.
but for not as long
as you might expect
just one hour or two
hydrangeas flood the house with the smell of winter
the night is still
3.
so I don’t look at my hands
though there is something I must do
this buzzing internal puzzle
I walk through that door and
am under the ocean
4.
awake at three or four
this house a dreamscape
the floor boards in the bathroom
wooden warm smooth
the tree dances in the street light
5.
this final waking in
the winter's miserly light
a rich day waits
ritual begins
at the kitchen table
I recall the hectic night
I have been working on this poem for the last couple of weeks and I hope it conveys that dreamlike world we experience waking in the night. I shall put it away until the summer now. As I have said many times before, time grants us distance to see the flaws in our work.
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