The Youth of the Night.

And in light of the hour,
That shed thee of youth, 
At a time when one needs another,
To drive out harsh truths.
I seem to have found a way to divert,
The much pined for gaze,
Of the one whom once hurt,
Due to some other's pathetic phase.

It is, why now, in this darkening day,
I simply sit and wallow,
In the dying light upon the bay,
Alone in my depleting youth, still and hallow,
My thoughts and senseful mind astray.

 My grin becoming a shadow, 
It's charm sinking into the night,
My skin losing it's colour for pallor,
My hair falls loose, my hands clench tight,
I laugh into the late of the night. 
I scream into the face of my plight. 

A Moment Missed.

There, by the window facing south,
There is not a figure present. 
And down by the window sill,
 Down where she lays her hand,
Is not a hand to be seen.

And when, in the quietest of hours,
Doth pass the hour of,
A time long forgotten by a mind,
That was rarely there,
Where she waits. 

So pass that hour then,
Into the moment that only she,
The figure lost, does notice. 
A chime unheard that was once there,
Rings out into the silence. 

With it's dark call, it's silence owns -
All that is seen around it.
And without her standing there,
Where she hears beside that window south,
It goes onward unnoticed. 

It must be grey.

I should think you mighty,
To come and to challenge me,
So do not,
And simply be beside me.
Have you ever a question for me?

I am aware of tear stained cheeks,
We have both witnessed,
Such colour,
In dusks simple transaction.
Like winter lasting longer.

I have made you up a room,
The walls all rather pale,
To rest,
You must lay your head somewhere near mine.
The birds here sing all night.

Waking is a scent in itself,
And realisation is the sweetest to follow,
Remember me,
The crow will caw before the dawn.
And I have been awake most of the night.

Should I fall prey to sleep,
Below the hollow tree outside,
Sudden quiet,
And the day time's birds.
I expect your challenge withdrawn upon waking. 

The Dream Chronicles

 I had always found it terribly sad, how easily dreams slip away, piece by piece - how they seem to return to a realm in which you are only entitled to when you are unconscious.
 But what I have also found quite interesting… is my unconscious ability to log those dreams. I have often suffered in an endearing sort of way with sleep. Sleep has woken me, and yet left my sights in the realm beyond, sleep has offered me what reality would be and allowed me to believe it whilst still in the walls of said realm… on one occasion, my dreams even woke me up three or four times before fully committing to doing so. 
 But it seems the… realistic side, the waking side, has possibly been getting a similar revenge.
There are odd moments, in the very early hours, when I do wake between interesting dreams, and I’ll try any of the nearest means in my half-sleep state to write down what it was I had seen. In terribly sometimes indecipherable ways. Be that a pad, a phone… any thing. 
 And then, just the other day, I was deleting a few things from my mobile phone, and there in a draft folder I found these words. 
‘Found dragon bones byprive, dna and orange.’
Like a message that had been sent to me, like a humorous note saved by some one close without my seeing … I don’t use those predictive texts systems, so it couldn’t have been an accidental sort of thing. 
Besides, it was far too obvious. 
 In a time I cannot remember, in an evening long forgotten, images and scenes regarding those three things (and we will say things) took place before and around me. They lay forgotten, a whirl that the realm created and whirl diluted by the waking world.
 Only I don’t remember the waking world either. 
Where was I for that particular moment? Those moments, perhaps they were?
It’s simple, comes the argument, ‘We all forget things when we’re tired, it’s natural’.
But what if it isn’t simple. 
 Recently I had another dream (granted, I have them -a lot-) in which the ending was a little too suspicious. A little to like a film coming to a decent end. Something like when the kettle boils to a whistle. A lot like I was going to see a little something too much. 
 I woke so comfortably, I woke like they wake in films. When they open their eyes slowly, gracefully stretch an arm across the pillow and sigh softly. 
That’s not how I wake up! I either jump unnecessarily and wrench my eyes open amongst all the sleep, or I make some kind of unearthly sound and throw myself onto my front in a bid to go back to the realm.
 I should explain the dream.  I usually have series of them, and I am sure that there were more, however, we will start from the movie-finale. 
 I shall keep it brief (I often log details so small as colours of walls and shapes of cars, I’m not sure why, perhaps for a therapist to pick over in my later life or to relive like child hood memories).

 I entered a familiar courtyard, and in it a woman I had seen often on the television in the waking world. My partner was with me, and we strolled happily, we strolled like we partook in skipping about time - like we had had troubles in our lives and yet we were so pleased. 
 This woman seemed thrilled to see us, and yet she smiled knowingly, smiled with sadness. Her familiar eyes glistened as she walked us around the courtyard, and all I could think was that I had to be in work at 4 o’clock, and it must have been about half past three. But I was so pleased to see her, and I was so comfortable in the leggings and leather jacket that I was so memorably wearing. 
I was beginning to let the waking realm worries go, I was allowed to assume I wasn’t going to be in trouble, and yet I still felt I was awake, as I so usually do when dreaming that way. 
As we (practically) danced around to the other side of the courtyard, speaking with this woman about times gone by and how happy we were to see each other, it came to us that it had recently, or was about to be, my birthday. And my partner and this woman spoke of something about me, for me, that I assumed to be a surprise. I urged them to tell me, and we ran into our male friend (also from that programme on the television). He too knew something that I didn’t. 
There was a lingering melancholy, the sky above was colourless and the pavements the greyest of greys. 
To remain brief in my description of this dream, I will bring it to it’s final moments. The three people with me all looked to each other, as I urged them onwards for my surprise, to tell me what they knew. They all smiled sadly, and stepped into three different spots. The other male was centre stage, and he looked to my partner, who nodded to him with a firm and yet emotional expression. 
I had become nervous, and a song was playing some where, so I had begun to dance, a subtle and rehearsed dance from years before in the waking world.
I probably looked ridiculous, and once the nod had been exchanged, it was as though the record playing began to skip. The lyrics repeated themselves without mercy, but with rhythm. 
‘You know the rules, and so do I’.
He stepped toward me slowly, he stepped toward me like we all suddenly realised there were cameras, that this was rehearsed, that we knew we were being filmed. And then he cupped my face, and kissed me as though we were acting. I had closed my eyes, the moment his hands had touched my face, and it’s a peculiar thing, closing your eyes in a dream. I was entirely unaware of what was going on before me, the distraction being a perfect one, and whatever it was that they had all shared, whatever melancholy coming or surprise they had for me remained a mystery, as when I opened my eyes I was in the waking realm. 
But it had felt that simple, it had felt as though I had simply closed my eyes for a couple of moments and then opened them again, and found myself to be in a bed and not a courtyard. 

When I look back on the end of that dream, I find that my partner and the woman in the dream behind him were looking to each other, were communicating in some way unknown to me. They knew I had to wake, they knew the rules. The rules the lyrics assumed me to know.
But that realm can seem so very real, and again, an argument is that it is natural.
But I trip on that fact, that statement, I find it simply too suspicious, the way people I have never seen enter my dreams in a way I cannot fathom, in a way that I should then find them in the waking world. And in the waking world, I find myself unknowingly logging those things that should probably be important. 

Writing Alone.

 "It would be such a sad tale, if you were to start the story with the quiet word that is 'lonely'", he said rather plainly, but still each word was sung with that accent of his.
 "But I see no other way to begin it, I know only of loneliness".
"No, you see you are wrong, you know only of writing of loneliness", sung he, taking a stride to the window, and glaring toward the fields through the panes. "Let me warn you of loneliness, and writing of loneliness. It will consume you, it will devour your sleep and it will shiver your delicate skin. It will line your hair in silver and it will bring lines to your hands. Good writing will always consume you, and you know it too well for it not to be written as perfection".
"But in that way", replied I, "You make me out to be some one who has never experienced friendship, let alone love or cherishing".
"My dear, you haven't".
"And if it is so, why won't you allow me to write, to live this way and produce something from my predicament?", I eyed him momentarily, but my point was over before it began.
"Oh  but you have me wrong, I truly wish that you write and only write, but if I were to encourage you in any way your loneliness would be abolished, and useless, tinged in happiness. And I will have none of that. You must be a successful writer and earn yourself a name in print for after you die."
"Oh you are ever right. But tell me, is there a beautiful day at my window? Have I not sun to hinder my accomplishments or is it the grey water that lashes at my window pane?".
"You should write that down", sung he, "And ignore this plain weather as best you can".
 After that I wrote for quite a time, changing quills only thrice and whilst lingering on one paragraph for a few minutes spoke briefly of sadness before returning to my work.
He sung nothing more until I, myself, stepped to the window.
"So is it a lonely life, that which we live?", his eyes rolled just as the hills that were reflected within them. He touched at the pane of glass before him, and turned back to his companion.
"It is", said I, my voice trailing off and barely touching at the bare wooden walls, barely wrapping itself around the ornate candle holders and not even baring a reflection of breath upon the piano.
I looked to the window where my hand led on the glass, creating a small print of mist.
 I waited upon an answer for what must have been an hour, but the melodic voice did not return. And it was only when my piece was read, that he ever spoke again. And he did not continue from then. His words remained eternal upon the page, and my voice always was the only voice within my manor.

Needed.

"It is not an alarming tale", said she,
Leaning quite still against the door,
"And I can't say I'd ever met some one like he",
And with that she stood saying no more.

But it was seen in her posture,
Her fondness of romantic tales known,
And it had certainly come to cost her,
Letting that voice speak to her before she was grown.

It had first started late, deep into the night,
Simple small ramblings, such whispers to youth unheard.
But when she came to listen, it never brought fright,
And she mentioned to her Mother, that it was the friend she'd preferred.

Of course when it spoke by silk, by the candle light,
It was all quite agreeable, it's tone quite right.
Her laughter was heard one rainy night,
By a concerned neighbour who had otherwise thought her polite.

 Let's not agree that the girl had been mental,
For had you of known her you'd never have supposed,
That such a girl had menial conversations with the spectral
And could ever have been any thing other than decently composed.
 
"I suppose you could meet him", she said one day to I,
I was pleasantly surprised and agreed right away,
His voice entered swiftly, just as he in mind's eye.
And a day has not passed, that he has not come to play.

An Evening With Ivy.

She looked at me with all the innocence of an old woman baking.
“It’s just that, in our time, more enchanting things happen”.
She put down the potato in her hand, and took up another, peeling onward. I simply sat, basking in the warmth of the fire, the cosiness of the brickwork and the linings of ivy that she had strung up about the place.
“You aren’t following are you?”, she asked gently.
“Well… No”, I answered tastefully.
She smiled, ever looking toward the peeling she was busying herself with. She had peeled an awful lot of potatoes.
“Is there any one else here?”, I ventured.
“No, but there will be”.
“Do they always dress this way?” I asked, pulling at my lapel softly, and fidgeting in my chair.
“Most of the time, yes”, she answered, just as simply as any other way in which she spoke.
“And… and you will stay young?”.
She glanced up at me momentarily, returned her eyes to the potato and said, “Well yes, I suppose I will”.
There was quiet, and the feel that winter was barricading the front door, such a small front door it was. Heavy as it was. Outside the brown cobbles gave away the era, the low gaslights gave the hum of poverty about this street, and I turned my eyes back from the small windows to the little lady sat before me.
 Her skin so pale and smooth, it was English skin, the sort that only sees rain. Her hands looked worked and yet youthful, her lips the delicate darkening pink that experience gives them upon a woman.
She clocked my gazing upon her, and paused her peeling momentarily to run an awkward hand through her raven hair, tucking it back into place under her bonnet.
“Why are you still asking me questions?”, she asked.
“I suppose, because I am trapped here”.
“You may leave whenever you please”, she said with English arrogance.
“It’s a lovely little place you have here”, I said, leaning back onto the oak table.
“Yes, quite. Saved most of this furniture from the tip. Found it”.
“Quite a find”, I said, gliding a gentle hand across the table top, with care not to knock the arrangement of flowers that she had led upon a silver plate.


This may be continued, it may remain. I'm quite fond of it.