by Madelaine Nerson Mac Namara © 2014
Dashing the early mists
like the towers of a keep
beside lake or river
dreams half-forgotten
appear arbitrary
as if they might belong
just to anybody.
You cling to that fancy
though I claim otherwise.
Yet sometimes you relent
propped upon grey dawn light
you'll grip more tightly
the quilt of regained ground
condescend to recount
as you might a weird play
your latest disowned dream.
Other times, as you sleep
you cry out, or moan, agonised.
Unpaid guest of your dreams
baffled interpreter
of your booby-trapped night
I'll sit up, haul you out
of your own no-man's land
where nightmare's chalked your face
rocked your dutiful schoolboy soldier soul.
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