by | Feb 11, 2020

If I go down to the water I can see it, momentarily –

It reveals itself in ripples, winking, slyly, at me –

then disappears, it isn’t there, but it was, feigning, dodging in and out, prophetic –

alluding to virtues of sleep, to rest, when feeling somewhat energetic.

So many other things, sweet manna, this sleep, for those who sweat and labour –

filling the well of compensation, or reward, for those who so dearly crave her.

It is this, right here, this, the regeneration of the body, the spirit, or the mind –

or both, or all, if that is what I need, or crave, or somehow in this moment, find.

Check the kitchen, is power generation low –

as I search behind a lounge room chair, for something I can throw –

still, stillness does not arrive and how it all, if at all, its denouement is deferred –

the caffeine induced light-shed nature fighting gallantly, preferred.

Pity treads on the heels of images while it hustles itself away –

says “I’m not ready for you, yet” – come back another day – 

what to do, where to go, it monsters thought dreams vacillating –

but dreams are not, merely holidays, ideals or plans procrastinating.

Slumber, sleep, what is it but an absence of the other, or yesterday’s commotions –

compressed into sensual imaginations of needlessly bought devotions –

wisdom – none, it strangles all the things that others purport to it and beseech it to continue –

in gaining, gathering, written, words in support of it, while it strains with every sinew.

The space, the song, of limited speed, if possible, to dance beneath the morning shower –

not diminished, or ignored, resting, content in its extraordinary power –

if only, to look again, in the water, for the ripple, that will mean I’m finally mended –

unto the rest, the peaceful rest, that I’d, to, hours ago, surrendered.

© copyright – Stephen Newman 2020