Only a neat margin of moonlight
there at the curtain’s edge.
The room like a dark page.
I lie in bed.
Silence is ink.
The sound of my breath dips in
and out. So I begin
night writing. The stars type themselves
far out in space.
Who would guess,
to look at my sleeping face,
the rhymes and tall tales I invent?
Here be dragons; children lost
in the wood; three wishes; the wicked
and the good.
Read my lips.
The small hours are poems.
Dawn is a rubber.
Waking up with the dogs befroe dawn and her ‘rubber’ I found this poem today and had to print it off. What happens to our night writing with our more loosely assembled imaginative ‘visitors’?