Here’s how the dream unfolds: behind the gritted lids of night is told the story of an ironed-flat sea - moonlight over mercury. Soon out. Beyond the beach. Deep down below the folds and creases. Rapid eyes. Heart beat increases. Mouthing silently as they sink like drowning men who twist and pike then slip, unsaved, beneath the surface an un-remembered shoal of twisted faces. By morning out of reach. Untold. Unseen. So all that’s left is this blank sheet damp and crumpled from the dream.
You know that feeling of loss when you have a really good idea at night but you’ve forgotten it by morning? Well this is a poem about that!
I used to keep a notebook (yes, a stupidly expensive and pretentious Moleskine) by my bed to scribble down random words and lines as they came to me. That, of course, meant turning on the bedside lamp. So now, for the sake of my long-suffering partner, I jot them down in the notes of my smartphone although I’m sure the blue light of the screen is playing havoc with my sleep pattern.
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