Morning

Morning

Running along the darkened hallway

Towards the far-end open door

Where the light floods in

And suddenly there is sound again

Rushing, scraping, scratching

An end to thoughts and dreams

To schemes of reddened skies

To floating boulders slowly turning

To sweeping clouds of yellow

And the bellowing roar

Of a lone walrus upon a deserted shoreline

To the flutter of dry and dusty leaves

Driven, wind-blown, swirling

And the clatter of hooves

Of blue-skinned ponies trotting

Through a cold and empty square

The space echoing back the sound

And the voids of blackened eye-holes

Of grotesque, trembling skulls

And which, after an endless time

Slowly dissolve and desiccate

Into the crystals of the waking world

Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2013