blog, Pat Aitcheson writes, poetry


#3 in the colour series

wreco via pixabay


It is the time of sleep and not-sleep

but warm, always.

It is the time of seen and not-seen

soft focus, blurred.

It is the time of dream and not-dream

yet absolutely real.

It is the place mapped and not-mapped

each hill and curve already known.


These are not adventures, and here be no dragons.

We know this gentle push and pull

caressing the edge of darkness

teasing the frontiers of rest.

The familiar needs no more.

Soft half-light reveals us to each other again

veiled in a gossamer web of sighs.

It is that time.