Feline Dreamers
Our dreams are like the wanderings of a lost soul
Around a hall of mirrors.
Reflections of the mundane or the terrible in our lives,
Randomly distorted and thrown back to echo around our minds
As the hot desert wind may eddy around a bleached and hollowed skull.
Run, run into the endless night,
Through the perfumed undergrowth,
With the wind in your face
And the moon in your eyes.
Let the dancing limbs
Of your tireless mind,
Leap across a garden fence
And over a garden gnome,
Around a cold and shimmering lily pond,
To a pile of rusty autumn leaves,
Or a sweetly smelling compost heap.
Feel the breath of the night,
And hear a million scurrying sounds.
Know the thrill of fear,
As a dustbin clatters,
Or, a dog barks near.
The comfort of the hearth is far away,
In a house that’s silhouetted
Against the starlight.
For now, the primal blood
Runs through your veins,
Even as you run through the night.
Comfort belongs to your other world.
The world you always escape
In your dreams.
(C. 1983)
Dedicated to our mutual wide-eyed friend, Rupert.
Born sometime in March 1982, London.
Died June 4th 1983, Harlow.