Metamorphine and Other Poems, Page 2

Feline Dreamers

  Our dreams are like the wanderings of a lost soul

  Around a hall of mirrors.

  Reflections of the mundane or the terrible in our lives,

  Randomly distorted and thrown back to echo around our minds

  As the hot desert wind may eddy around a bleached and hollowed skull.

  Run, run into the endless night,

  Through the perfumed undergrowth,

  With the wind in your face

  And the moon in your eyes.

  Let the dancing limbs

  Of your tireless mind,

  Leap across a garden fence

  And over a garden gnome,

  Around a cold and shimmering lily pond,

  To a pile of rusty autumn leaves,

  Or a sweetly smelling compost heap.

  Feel the breath of the night,

  And hear a million scurrying sounds.

  Know the thrill of fear,

  As a dustbin clatters,

  Or, a dog barks near.

  The comfort of the hearth is far away,

  In a house that’s silhouetted

  Against the starlight.

  For now, the primal blood

  Runs through your veins,

  Even as you run through the night.

  Comfort belongs to your other world.

  The world you always escape

  In your dreams.

  (C. 1983)

  Dedicated to our mutual wide-eyed friend, Rupert.

  Born sometime in March 1982, London.

  Died June 4th 1983, Harlow.