the gentle cradle…

of the soundtrack

to my dream last night,

facing me forward

into the slip stream of my mind’s review,

while time was on the accordion

compressing the memories

and playing the ones that wanted to stay.

Mesmerising to a standstill

the notes raimented themselves before me,

their diaphanous linger

forming the shape of my mother.

Stepping out of the slipstream

I watch her,

beautiful in dream youth,

opening a window…

 

 

 

5 comments

    1. Reply

      Thanks again 🙂
      The title is just the first word of the poem, I do that sometimes, should probably squeeze in “…” afterwards haha
      Thanks for reading, and commenting.

      Liked by 1 person

hi. friendly banter is always welcome.

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