Frank McMahon

NIGHT SHIFT

 

New laundered linen, the duvet crinkling
as I slide underneath, the amber glow
of the night-light tints the ceiling. Slow, slow

 

as the day sheds its weights and toils and I
rise lighter through solipsistic dreams
to the clearing in the wood where the wind

 

has brought its hoard from the workings of the day:
dreck, scattered seeds, inconsequential
dust, slivers of precious stones, the objects now

 

of nocturnal sift, pannage and salvage.
Faint rustles of wing and fur as I float
under starlight. Morning dull and bleary

 

reveals the cleared field. Whatever was preserved
may be found perhaps in the archives
of the trees: haze, dabs of gathered light.

 

© Frank McMahon

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