the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchimes
lulls me into a sort of sleep
one where dreams are based
on worried realities yet
magnified in a daliesque manner
all bent out of shape and pooling
at my feet, in garish coloured mists
whist in the background something whispers
"tis the gloaming upon us resist, resist!"

and the chorus line of purring cats
play with prawnheads and green tree frogs

i feel myself drowning in these mists, that
smell like fresh baked chocolate cake
and i try to care,
but sleep overcomes me
and the dreams slipside away
until  i awaken
in the cooler part of the day
and recall with haziness
the heat of earlier
and the swirl of the dreams .

the cat sits, staring at me, purring,
at its feet a toy mouse,
and i smell chocolate cake,
being baked by son and husband...
all apparently  is normal
with the exception of
the irregular rhythm
of the wood windchime.