“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