As in a dream

As in a dream the morning wakes;

in misted dawning

it yawns into day.

Here, in cold breathed light

and hazed vaguery,

another meeting is birthed

part formed, incomplete.

For here the story of the day

builds, with slow revelation

and receding cloud,

into unbred eternity.

Soon the thrice-crowing

of reality will steal good intention,

stain the diary with some self-filled act,

smudge the page with need.

This is a quiet place

awaiting the clamour, the gaudy voices,

of unwelcome intrusion

dusking its own darkness into the dawning.

And yet, as in a dream, the morning wakes

and holds within its gift

all possible things.