We walk and wade through swamps of yellow dreams,
sluggish where the mud sucks, root-tangle entraps,
and wake to the grey life that sucks and entraps,
and the consumed moon that drips like molten wax
into the slow swell.
But some nights, we walk, wade through fields
of flowered scents, the palmed rose rising in blue air,
and we pluck long stalks of meadow grass, string pearls
from tissue made, wear them like the chain of Brísigamen
until the night pales.
We walk, wade into the eye of sun opening,
into the misty pearl sown with rose petals, the song
of red-gold memories and the chink of precious stones,
and perhaps, just this once,
the grey will lift.