I want to lie on your faded sunrise,
Float on a sky, of whispered lullabies.
Awaken in your dreams,
Whisk me away on whipped cloud seams.
Condense these emotions, that fill me to brim
And together in the flowing rain, we will swim.

-SLuR

and the wind will blow
and you will drift
guided by chance
and an unseen Navigator  
like a ship on a raging sea
or a butterfly caught in the wind

just don't close your eyes

the light may be
too bright or too dim
the crumbling ruins
may fall hard
beside and inside you

but don't be found
holding tightly to the cocoon
when the metamorphosis
has long been completed.

your eyes are glistening,
as I'm patiently listening
to the sweet melody of
your preaching.

you're seeing right
through me or so I think,
if I think too hard I might just
blink and miss the sight of
the rosy pink lips that
roll like waves on a calm ocean.

I'm stunned by your motion.
an angel of heaven.
the way I speak of you
is like a fable. but how can I not
when I am unable to envision
anyone more perfect than your
beauty.

a collision of wonder
and sense fill my mind
with confusion and passion.

Harsh wind screaming
moaning
with the crisp bite of Autumn night

Dark shadows dancing
tossing
with the branches of bare grey Elms

The lanes are winding
uncurling
in the pale orange glow of headlights

Sudden hedgerows
green
edging the limits of the night

Power-cut darkness all around
silhouettes
strange in the headlight beam

No farm lights distant on the Tor
guiding
beacons of open field and place

Cottages shuddering their thatching
thrilled
chimneys smoking message-morse

Pub signs banging wildly
flapping
in a crazy dance
inside candles flickering
distorted
patterns in tiny panes of rounded glass

Old stone steeple steady
dull toned bell
catching
a ride on the wind to the copse

And still the lanes thread out
beam-born
a ribbon of pebbles and stone
stretching into the night
until they melt
into the flat black tarmac
of the motorway.

Hope is the thing with feathers  
That perches in the soul,  
And sings the tune without the words,  
And never stops at all,  
  
And sweetest in the gale is heard;          
And sore must be the storm  
That could abash the little bird  
That kept so many warm.  
  
I’ve heard it in the chillest land,  
And on the strangest sea;        
Yet, never, in extremity,  
It asked a crumb of me.

I dreamed
I was
At Birthwaite
I awoke
I was

Keith Wilson, Windermere, UK, Oct 2016