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.