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