by Portia Burton
Slowly the dark night come to my bed
Bringing along with the buds of dreams,
Which open out and entice me
To their abstract and enchanting world.
Grabbing a dream’s hand I reach a dense wood,
Where the fairies are singing a flowery song,
And the grass is sipping the nascent dew-drops,
While a bluish cowherd is playing on a flute.
His music soon entrances the gentle breeze,
Which starts throbbing and becomes a whirlwind,
To suck up the cowherd and also the fairies,
Leaving only me there, benumbed and transfixed.
Frightened and aghast, I want to turn back,
And run clueless to find an exit,
Then with a great gasp re-enter my body,
Only to wake up again with a sweated brow.
But how come my pillow now smells of wood,
And why do I still hear that cowherd’s tune?
©Portia Burton 2012