The Good Dreams

wild and windy day, rain
lashes, driven past in white
fluid sheets, sky a drab
grey

booms in the chimney, magnifies
silence;  chaos down south
way south in government -
I am glad to be here
in the cold
in the mountains
in the hills and trees, snow
still on the peaks

I am glad to grub
in my garden, being out
of prison breathing fresh air

blessing of sleep these past few
nights, no tossing and turning
no blank eyes in the dark

my worry side whispers
dreadful things of injury
and mirage, not despatched

by the mobile morning or
the drab light - so many
things out of sight
beneath the face of me

a mountain of knowledge
jagged rocks, broken glass,
a void of darkness
broods at the edge, vast
nothingness turning as if it could
suck me in - the deep pit

I fell in once
had to climb out all
broken bones, terror, pain
beyond reckoning, experience
of others' sin

here, living, many things have come
to my reaping, sown under
black sky after black sky -
but it grew quietly nonetheless
and now I have my harvest
days of spring flowers
good dreams realised

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