Fading Memories

The rain falls
my lips soften

Slowly
I remember
to breathe

Waiting
for my world to stop
and the sun to rise

fading
memories

like ripples
in your pond
before it freezes
for winter

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Blackbird

There is a baby
blackbird
chirping
just
outside my
bedroom window

It is early
Sunday morning

thin grey light
illuminates
my white curtains

Only The Spaniel
and I are awake
and the baby bird
singing
for breakfast

A hush
settles
over everything
like dust

There is a
quiet
emptiness
about
every
Sunday morning

Sunday Morning Coming Down

which is a song
about hangovers
about living fast
and hard

These days
I’m hungover
on Life
on Death
on the Unknowable

while the quiet
seeps into my heart
filling my chest

and with it
a kind of peace

I wasn’t expecting that

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Sleeping Adventures

Briançon, Hautes-Alpes, France ~ photography by me, Robin Dalton September 2004

When I begin

to think

My dreams

have been lost

I lean out my window

Let the scent

of the flowers

in my room

mingle with the magic

of the the flowing river

and the purple heather

in the distance.

Surely this is

the stuff

dreams are made of.

And even when

I open my eyes

to find I am

still in my bed

in a small room

without a view

without the heather

without the river

I know my dreams

are alive and well

and living in my heart

and my sleeping adventures.