In the middle of the night,

sleepless,

there is a gentle lucid clarity

and awareness,

and there are thoughts that

dive deep and scatter

to strange places,

unimpeded by the demands 

of the sunlit active day.

 

Sleep,

the favoured sibling 

of mind’s night family,

is out of sorts and 

far away imprisoned;

and so the waking sister

of night’s lonely vigil

has her day in the inky freshness

when half the world is asleep.

 

It is here that poetry 

sprouts in the fertile 

stillness of the dark,

feeding on imagination’s

nocturnal play,

and dropping with images

and words that insist

on being formed

under her tutelage.

 

It is here that there is

the self alone and apart,

like a seafarer marooned

on a lonely island,

with a mind-formed friend,

waiting for the rescue of light

but not wishing it to come too soon.

 

10/1/2019