Remembered Dream

The way grew steeper,
or at least harder,
and when I looked up again,
Night had fallen.
A pale moon fretted
at a fraying cloak of mist;
a tree bent as though by
the weight of long years
lifted its face to her light.
An owl called.
I listened.
Then, at a turning,
there was a Door,
and a Lamp,
lit against that night...



© Mark Reep 2003