15 April 2008


It never was a dream.
In reality a fleeting
hint of song perhaps,
carried on a passing breeze,
remembered if it pleased
whoever stopped and listened
carefully – then gone, and all within
the moment it was born,
or so it seemed.

I feel its lucent harmony when
time abides its strident march,
it hangs in disconnected strands of
memory, poignantly connects
the parts no longer joined
fills the gaps between a past
I never left or ever asked
recalled with stark
and utter clarity.

It’s not a dream. I’ve dreamed
occasionally of things which make
an entertaining feast of wonderment;
this piece rejects temporal energy,
exists in unrelated shards without
paternity of thought until
it’s brought to mind in
clear cathartic
sweetest denouement...
© 28 March 2008, I. D. Carswell