Carol Ann Duffy — A Dreaming Week

Not tonight, I'm dreaming in the heart of the honeyed dark in a boat of a bed in the attic room in a house on the edge of the park where the wind in the big old trees creaks like an ark. Not tomorrow, I'm dreaming till dusk turns to dawn - dust, must, most, moot, moon, mown, down - with my hand over an open unread book, a bird that's never flown . . . distantly the birdsong of a telephone. Not the following evening, I'm dreaming in the monocle of the moon, a sleeping S on the page of a bed in the tome of a dim room, the rain on the roof, rhyming there, like the typed words of a poem. Not the night after that, I'm dreaming till the stars are blue in the face printing the news of their old light with the ink of space, yards and yards of black silk night to cover my sleeping face. Not the next evening, I'm dreaming in the crook of midnight's arm like a lover held by another safe from harm, like a child stilled by a mother, soft and warm, twelve golden faraway bells for a charm. Not that night either, I'm dreaming till the tides have come and gone sighing over the frowning sand, the whale's lonely song scored on wave after wave of water all the wet night long. Not the last evening, I'm dreaming under the stuttering clock, under the covers, under closed eyes, all colours fading to black, the last of daylight hurrying for a date with the glamorous dark.