When angels dream
Beside the calm of heaven’s stream
Within a golden forest glade
Where branches overlap and braid
The silver starlight’s gleam,
What sights enshrine your haloed heads
And blossom in ambrosial beds
Of purely known unconsciousness?
What dreams arise when all is less
Than where you lie?
My dreams are less than yours, I think,
For my imperfect thoughts will shrink
And shrivel, fallen leaves that dry
Beneath a swollen sunlit sky.
But when your thoughts are close at hand,
My own proceed to fly and stand
Like trees that drink from deeper stores.
The golden forest stream explores
The higher realms that angels share.
With you as guide, I’m nearer there.
And so, I ask, so selfishly,
If once, tonight, you’ll dream of me.
I was in northern Ghana for work the past two weeks, and I wrote this poem on my way home, during a short flight that brought me back to Accra, the capital city, before continuing on to Kenya. I had the title phrase in my head as a starting place, but the poem eventually became a bit more personal. In my mind, it became about asking questions related to people who have passed on: Where have they gone? In the place where they are, do they dream? If so, what are their dreams? Do they look back toward the people they knew during their lives? And, if they do dream of us, can we feel it?
No comments:
Post a Comment