You sense the ingrowing borders of sleep
silting through the curtained-black room;
a low peak of the numbing slope
iced with floated images, jigsaw dream
logic, the hand-held surface that lurches
to half-lost memories – unlit landscapes from
childhood: infinite fields of firs and larches,
transparent lakes circled by crowds,
felt in the quiet, as the dead in churches,
and leading on to masked lies, false charades,
hazardous diversions: the lost jumble
of remembrance that remembering erodes.
Awake is the place of the precise fruitbowl
with its predictable contents. Your back
arched into the sofa. The wait as you fumble
for the light. Fathomable things: the book
calmed on the table; the birdsong now flown;
cupboards standing shut while you blink.
The sudden comfort of being alone
at night, with not a noise except the screams
of foxes, cars down the lane,
people you love murmuring in rooms
above. You stay on the safe side of that line
Satan first came to Eve in her dreams.