A Poem Not Writ Whilst Dreaming

This is not the poem I wrote while sleeping

Where you wore a mask of summer’s wind bent trees

Of indecision crookèd on your face

Mouthing words no-one hears or reads 

A dew from the parasol of your lips

As if the season were uncertain

The sky quite sunless (neither low nor high)

Irregardless of my hand by hand ascension

A lady’s plaits are worn rope 

Anchored, twined

Lashed about 

Through the day’s fraught folly

All departed ships of laughter

Behind the mollusc of your hand

Far from eider seas

Pillars deliberately leaning

The skull white dome caved in

Never once and never to return

Unwind thread by thread

See how they arc and sleek

As a storm field’s horses

Oil to calm and myrrh to laud

Fine scissors with those scaled

Bird-limbed handles

The stalk beak wading

Through frayed ends

Turning with an alchemist’s consideration

A gull lorn, restless cry

Flax to falling silver