the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she fears to lose the light
she huddles like a child
who needs a low lit lamp
and dreads the lullaby
she hides inside the story books
and keeps the bell at hand
her bedside charms are bastions
against that other land
the visions nightly gather
around my mother’s bed
she knows that all her visitors
are shadows of the dead
when i was small and nothing was named
triangles rounded, appealing yet strange,
pink pastel , green, powder blue, cream,
on a chain of balls hung by my hand
in the space now named kitchen, mundane,
a wondrous light gleamed on the taps
a window shaped shadow shone on the wall
sunspots and dazzle in dust motes that danced
the magical, mystical weave of the world
daydreams later, music, rhythms and words,
hidden companions jumped out of books
words that told astonishing thing, they flew
black wings, deep blue, a momentary flash,
crystalline visions, a jewel shone in a beak,
a message from angels that sheltered the bed.
morning left on the walk to the school
to the room of the witch, her ice cold eyes
held nightmares, inaccessible stars,
barred windows where birds sang outside
a world full of things not understood
diving inward, escaping
curled up tight in a ball
eternally quiet
eternally small
when i am old i wont do anything
but think
and run my life back and forward
in my mind
in translucent back-lit visions
the trek to the kitchen and back
a long journey
re-gaining at last the armchair
i will sleep
to dream dreams of the long gone days
i will develop a liking for jelly and custard
milk pudding
soup from a can and cheese with jam
cream cakes
and forget what i meant to have for breakfast
the taps will drip, the fire will burn cold
windows rattle
and the mice will move in unafraid
as company
to eat all the fabrics to tatters
i will confuse the books i have read
with memories
i will see the ghosts of my family
standing by
wondering if they will lead me away tonight
I wont care about any of this
watching light
watching shadows move across the walls, my clock
distant birds
i will ignore all bad news and live in imagination
drifting back to childhood again
so clear
with all my family gathered near
the dead ones
now will become a space between waking and sleep
The Dreaming Path 