Friday, 22 July 2016

In My Father's House.

two for tree and tree for two

Which came first – the dream or the storm?

The storm hit at 4.40am, the dream came after.

The storm began with thunder shots, distant and far and sleep was only interrupted.

Then the anger rolled in.

Soft, at first - then hard.

Deep overhead, threatening and frightening.

Would the tree fall?

The rain fell like waves, like ice, like Armageddon.

The night was no more, only bright stabbing light.

The dream followed; the old workshop, the bench where he worked.

The door half broken, in need of repair.

The wind restless.

The storm first, dreams second.

Broken sleep, broken dreams.

So I’m tired.

Tired of all this fear.

Tired of all this hate.

Tired of all this pain.

Tired of the killing.




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