in between night and sunrise
in between my right hand and my right
in between my dreaming and my waking
in between lost thoughts
and the next thought I may have
in between the ticking of the clocks
they move between the stairs
between the floorboards
between closed doors and ceiling cracks
between the shadows windows cast
until they become reality at last
doors
Hidden Rooms in Secret Houses
Secret rooms, hidden behind walls,
books, red cushions and a chair,
visited in dreams, well known.
Narrowed passageways and stairs
climb above the twisted chimney stacks.
They rise like curling smoke, a spiral.
Doors that open inward lead out to
the dove cote, fountain, walls of mossy stone,
pathways, apple trees and pears.
At last I leave this house.
Beyond the gate
the island, slate and jagged rocks,
a swaying broken bridge in sighing wind,
a fragile home of glass and salted timber.
High tides beat against it, retreating in a spray.
A window cracks. I am not afraid.
The lighthouse calls out through the fog,
receding echoes that return again,
a sound that swings around the bay.
In dreams, when I am swept away,
the waiting house remains.
The Dreaming Path 