I dragged the dreams reluctantly
through fields of mouldering hope,
across the riven chalk and clay;
beyond the place of crows.
The ravens watched with beady eyes,
the draggings dark and bright,
and fluttered wings of sullen death;
brought day to bed of night.
In silken, slow meanderings,
the images were brought,
from landscapes well remembered;
though source too long forgot.
It seemed as if a red-blood sun,
had burst horizon’s breast,
and rose in mocking memory;
the truth now full repressed.
But only in the looking back,
could traces still be seen,
of decimated life and love;
of light and broken dreams.
To gather up the fraying shreds,
to weave discarded parts,
would bring to birth new futures;
restore a grieving heart.
The mind can stitch so carefully,
can draw with graceful thread,
embroider with such faithfullness,
that life is brought from death.