Woodland Dreams
- Details
- Written February 2008
Branches piled into a bivouac,
Paralleled in protection
Where he can lay his head
Among fox holes and bird nests [1]
Criss-crossed skylights
Looking up to the drifting clouds
Reflecting London’s light
Bedded among bluebells
Under trees claimed by invader
Parakeets screeching their green
Above paths beaten by strangers
Wanting to understand his dreams
On the royal road to the subconscious
Littered with yesterday’s food
Plasticized cardboard
Compressed into takeaways
To become his meals on wheels
Rolled into a joint of hemp
Or somebody else’s give-aways
That escalates the image
Into memories forever damaged
Yet he wakes from the latency of sleep
To discover the freshness of a new day
Manufactured by the sleep machine
Of free-floating ideas
Energising the soul
Prepared for nothing more
Than the wakefulness of tomorrow
With Schimmelbusch dripping his ether
Mesmer waves a hand
And Hypnos yawns wearily
As Freud scowls in disgust
At the one who neither slumbers nor sleeps.
But the creator of the mystery of night
Confirms He’s no mere dream.
23 February 2008
On discovering a vagrant’s bivouac in Hawkwood, and after attending the ‘Sleep and Dreams’ Exhibition at the Welcome Collection, London. For more pictures see: Bluebells in Hawkwood