A second draft.
Night. From the carbon window
I stare back, a deconstructed mask
amongst trace elements of moonlight,
rain, black leaves. I am part shapes
remembered and part shapes
from out of the sleep of reason.
In this cone of silence just
before the dawn, the shadow
world is palpable: gods
and monsters glide and crawl
by my garden gate. Half-dreams,
uncertain memories, dust devils rolling.
Here and now, I sense, is the pagan
junction where all things meet:
skeletons into flesh, ghosts
into plasma, rumours, fears, the whole
arcana hard wired into the dark.
The night and I, strange company
in a world without hours. No sound
closer than the distant rhyme
of a long train running.
And then, when I turn away
towards my own dark, there’s just
my breath and the falling rain.