north light

Dreams are eluding me.

Not the night time sort, wild fragments of story-telling from my beautiful sub-conscious mind.

No, I mean the daytime sort of dreams, those that come clearly defined and neatly delineated, the things others talk of dreaming about, dreaming of, planning for, working to make happen.

I go to that place in my mind, in my heart, where I think the dreams might be, and there is nothing. Silence. A blank screen.

I write, to myself, and some others whom I trust, that I feel lost without dreams, disconnected from the world of dreamers, puzzled by their dreaming, disconcerted by the absence of my own. Continue reading

My eyes fill with

the rolling fields of January,

bare, leafless,

colourless almost,

old fort hills and soft muddy farmland

falling,

breathing,

gently unexceptional.

hilltop trees mark

the place you know is home:

tears of recognition,

dotted all over the horizon.

~~~

Carved out of one of my favourite poem making techniques: writing a piece of prose (in this case, about the journey home) and then cutting the lines up (literally) and moving them around, with further chopping if necessary, to form the shape, feel and sound of a poem.