Dreams

sometimes glide
on silent barges
through dimmed labyrinths,
then disembark
to feather us
with filmy familiarity,

but they prefer to be airborne.

Impalpable as spirits,
they drift high,
sharing space with
a Tetris of strange encounters,
risen like breathing smoke
from beneath
the weight of night.

They are quilted
from vaporous patches,
and sewn
with gossamer thread.
Ethereal,
but quite real.

Harlequins of life,
their characters ride,
fly,
or freefall,
swapping stories

Dreams

embroidered with details
of Dali and Escher,
until the air is thick
with the colour of them,

but, in the morning heft
of hoisting
the heavy canvas
of sail-like lids,
we have lost sight
of the expanse
where
our other self
flies free.

Anchored
to what we think
is possible,
we feel the firmness
of the ground,
see a bleached sky,
and crave only
the dark of sleep.