Beds for Writers

It’s no surprise I should
dream so many dreams
when I sleep in beds
where many dreamers
have slept – their images
free as imago butterflies,
their poems, precise as
Greek pots and their stories
rising like Escher’s staircases
all invade my own word-filled
head – but why, last night,
did the blue bus, full of people,
tip into the river, why did
I know for sure, I would drown?

Ty Newydd, 23rd November 2010

Visit

The dog’s excited, whimpering,
pouncing on the upstairs landing –
I see what looks like a leaf blown in,
a flat brown object on the carpet –
can’t understand her excitement –
until I retrieve it and the flat brown
opens to reveal a thorax, antennae,
quivering colours of a red admiral butterfly
alive and fluttering in my clumsy hand –
a gift of summer flowers on a November day,
a tiny oriental carpet of vibrant red silks
in Cornwall’s damp and grey –
a moment of illumination in a dark hour –
all I can do is release it from an upstairs window –
hoping it will hibernate, not perish in the cold –
it was the gift of a moment, just a moment.

1st draft from Hilary Farmer’s Lapidus Cornwall workshop


18th November 2010