Not dreaming


I had dreams once and found them all.

Held in trembling palms of disbelief,

each one shrugged off its shimmer,

settled into habit, and on the rim of sight

I’d see another shimmer grow, tantalising and bright.


Dreaming is walking streets

where the homeless sleep, not seeing,

taking the shiny beads, not counting the cost,

running after rainbows

when the jolly red is forests burning.


I dream now of not dreaming,

not having, not treading with heavy carbon feet,

but being, accepting that at the end of every day,

beyond coloured cloud and setting sun shimmer,

night will fall, and there will be stars.


Published by

Jane Dougherty

I used to do lots of things I didn't much enjoy. Now I am officially a writer. It's what I always wanted to be.

14 thoughts on “Not dreaming”

  1. You make dreaming real: what it is, what it isn’t, what is should be, what it needn’t be. Without contributing to carbon-printing, we’ll still have the gift of night and stars. Good gift.

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