The Stowaway

A poem that drifted to me in my dreams before awakening, and kept me up all night

This morning of grey skies
And waters steely calm,
You came to me in dreamy form.
As my eyelids were still shut,
As my head lay still upon the pillow,
You prised apart the gates,
Picked the locks and stole
Inside my heart.

The sun has now arisen overhead,
Burning off the early morning mists;
And I awaken to my daily chores,
Try hard to attend the job at hand.
Yet inside my head you still remain,
A stowaway on a dreamy voyage
From the past or from the future?
I cannot fathom, cannot guess
I just cannot
Clear you from my head.

This evening of starry skies,
And waters inky black,
All the boats are safely back and moored.
I search the cabin for some sign of you;
A little of piece of Mozart drifts
    Softly on the air.
Perhaps underneath the stern sheets –
    Alas you’re not there!
Cookie crumbs and an empty milk-filmed glass,
A waft of gardenia and spent cinnamon ash,
A yearning in my heart,
Are all the signs that you were ever here.

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