Last night I had difficulty sleeping for a poem taking shape in my head. This morning I only remembered fragments. I’ve pieced it together as best I can.
Flights of fancy,
lost between the waking and the sleeping,
are fallen between the cracks of oblivion.
A memory, shadow of a truth, remains,
a ruined fragment rearing proud against a fevered sky.
Look, see the stars
and how they hang so high and far,
clustered in a glittering veil, always out of reach,
and stretch a hand to touch the light,
the velvet, bird-soft music of the night.
Rise up into the belly of the morning,
where clouds scud, ghost pale,
and follow the horses running,
too blue to see against the sky.
Here, the dream is waiting,
clad in sunlight and moonbeams,
here is where we run with the pack,
the tongue-lolling, soft-furred, curl-tailed pack
and nothing will touch us with pitch-smeared fingers,
nothing will paint us with the colours of death