, , ,


words detach themselves from the page

and crawl, unbidden, into his ears,

whispering in the lost forgotten

half-bled hour before dawn.

stick-written in sand on

an ancient shore in his mind,

they disappear with the tide

of consciousness in the daylight,

shapes drawn by fingertips down

the condensation of a windowpane.

sleep pressed its thumbs on his eyelids,

the gap between worlds yawned wide

as his future and he drifted into a dream

as if carried on a wave out to sea.

Photo by Belinda