Is time a rugged sailor?
There was a dream
I cannot sense the truth of
cannot remember what occurred
within it, cannot say
what is occurring now as I do not know
I see the pen in my hand and see the words
emerge upon the paper
and wonder what is mine to know.

I dreamt of love in the time of vast journeys
I dreamt of death in an aura of secrecy
I dreamt that the miscarriage of justice would be uncovered
I dreamt that every line I wrote would ascend heavenward

I dreamt of partisan politics defeating the world order
I dreamt Cameron, Osborne and Johnson
were in court for crimes against humanity

I dreamt that dreaming was banned under a new set of laws
I dreamt I carved a turkey and couldn't recall Christmas’s name

I dreamt I was on Safari in the Kalahari Desert
I dreamt people realised that they did not control the future
and love held sway

I dreamt the reality of the weather was beyond us
I dreamt that we meant something
I dreamt lying in bed was comforting
I dreamt that film Riot Club was altogether fiction

I dreamt the next sunset would be my last
and enjoyed my last day as no other.

A cascade of letters fell from a mountain
as an opportunity to unleash a shower
of words opened up to her and she
flew rainward into the clouds of
sentences that high above the word
flew forth and  freckled her arms
with flowered letters
which dried upon her skin.

and where was it you flew to
in search of silent respite
folding your arms across your chest
and falling forwards into the air stream
carried by currents, suspended by stealth?

A day of huge wind
  of autumn calling, calling

Of reading knowing, knowing
  it is itself no more than this

Words tumble and are not seen
  or noted as else but outpouring

The devices of communication
  rest quietly whilst sight surveys

The green of trees
  and orange of flowers

When I am dead I shall
listen to all the people
who will say what I should
have done

How I should have been
what could have been
if only I had...............

And I will smile
as I have done at all those funerals

and say"thats it" thats what I did
thats who I was
that's all and everything

and my heart will leak
cherry blossoms

and I will laugh and laugh and laugh

and what matter
that no-one may hear.

A memory of a day long ago
truth or fiction, each scene a new event

A story in the recalling or creating
a haze of happening or happenstance

Memory is spread throughout the brain
in different regions, is the region of the past

True North or chimera  I wonder,
one's own or the collective material of I

and who or what is I, a memory of a day
long ago and where if it exists does truth reside?

It was not the doors of death
it was the bird of life
that crept slowly into the rafters
to shelter from the rain