“What a tension of childhoods there must be, held in reserve at the bottom of our being, for a poet’s image to make us suddenly relive our memories, reimagining our images by starting from well assembled words. ” Bachelard 115

Darkness clouds through the grey starlight

Twinkles in the wide open sky

Worlds across the ether open to the night

As dawn rises the fog shrouds the earth’s mask

Slowly covering all in the shroud of morning dew

Waking to the dim light covered in warmth

slow to rise for the dreamscape lingers

Dreams of the sunlight

Dreams of the dark

As eyes open the sunlight beckons

the warmth of the every shining star

burns the sheet of grey and the world awakens

soft chirps sound in the distance

Soft rousing

Awake…

It is morning

and the dark is but a memory