Judi Benson
Waking the Wildebeast
I had a dream
wavering on the tip of rememberance
balancing on the tightrope
edge of a poem I could almost hear,
music I could almost see.
I was floating, floating
towards the kettle
towards the first coffee of the day,
precious silence, rare moment
before the self becomes itself.
Holding, holding so gently
to a hair of a thought, whisker of a colour
WHEN YOU SPOKE
Not the early morning
song of a bird I could weave
into my dream,
but right brain speech I couldn’t ignore
right in my face,
and I felt the dream slip away.
Sand poured through the hour glass,
then the glass broke
shattering me in your face.
Oh yes, then I was awake
but no longer my self.
Page(s) 92
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