Painting by Evelyn de Morgan
Though I pull the sheets of night about me,
nothing stops the (waking),
the ending of dreams,
the fall in(to the) glare of day.
The spool slips,
and the (slow) motion of the stars ceases.
No (butter)-light can sooth the loss,
soften the (slide) from the floating free (of) darkness
to the brash, brittle chains of (sunlight)
that scratch a bitter reality (through) dream space,
(painted) all the colours of the stars.
No (trees) bending in a subtle wind
changes the (knowing) that my feet are rooted to the earth
and I can no longer find the path that winds about the moon.
No (clouds) pinned cotton-soft on a blue canvas
(are) worth the (waiting) for sleep
(and the) swallowing of the (pitiless) sun
by the sacred (night).