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