To the drone of the washing machine
we are rocked into dreamland
out into the wide pale sky of evening
the clouds of grey are barques at our side
the trees
anemones that sway in tact with the tide
as all when we start falling into sleep
gets mixed

perhaps we're even upside down
who knows
our bodies rest on beds
but who's to say what's in our minds
that spin their yarns
of gossamer and silk
to bear us up to spheres we know not of
by day
unchanged
this theme we cannot alter in any other way

Margaret Ann Waddicor 13th May 2016