Dreams from a long Winter
Soft Sun splashes
On sparkling leaf and lawn,
On the first shirt-sleeve Sunday,
Of this new, and as yet undeclared,
But de-facto underway, Spring.
The sky twitters gently.
The hysteria of dawn is now becalmed.
Each beam of song ending in the starpoint
Of a small bird´s quivering throat.
My daughter, and her friend of overnight,
Emerge, tousled, through French windows,
Clutching cereal bowls, glittering ceramic.
They talk of last night´s dreams,
And things to come in days ahead.
Their youthful laughter is of discovery embraced.
Anxieties of yesterday, made concrete hard,
By scowling winter, now evaporate,
Like the dew of this good morning.
They have no idea what happiness,
Their conversation brings to me.
An onlooker, would have no idea,
What pain and distress have been contained,
In this shuttered house, during it´s dark season.
We have endured the hard death of the year just gone.
And the barely less hard birth of the year we now inhabit.
But, on such a day,
Weightless and transfiguring light alone,
Would seem to be all that is needed,
To untwist the knotted strings of a heart,
Whose beating came to be so strangled and reluctant.
To undark the bitter spleen and unblack the jealous bile,
That have made a poison out of sweetness.
To unclench the brain and smooth the fretted brow,
Through which madness has rampaged like a warrior berserk.
Leaving an inward desolation, through which
Diseased, unhealthy dreams have flickered.
Dreams of dead weights carried or dragged,
Through streets, and up steps, that only ascend, forever.
Dreams of being lost, alone and penniless in foreign cities.
Dreams of broken or unplayable musical instruments.
Dreams of cars that won´t start, that don´t exist,
Or that you know will never arrive.
Dreams of death welcomed as a saviour.
Dreams of too close friendship with mad dictators.
Dreams of falling endlessly into dreams of falling endlessly.
Unkind dreams from a long Winter.
I try to love the too penetrating drone,
Of a small plane´s passing overhead.
To share this promised day with millions,
In these crowded centuries,
Remains an unnatural accommodation.
But one that good will to men demands.
So I try.
The day moves into Glory.
The Earth´s pulse gathers,
Sure now that early warmth,
Is to become real and buzzing heat.
Later we will build a pyre.
With fire and smoke we will turn,
The garden remnants of the year just gone,
To white and innocent ash.
And we will sit around,
As evening falls, out of doors,
And quietly wait to welcome the early stars.
Meanwhile, the ten-thousand things,
Spring into invisible action,
To build for us a new year,
Worth living in.
Copyright © John Ferngrove 2009