That Morning

In this dream I never told,
I ran away.
Woke when the matted fox
was still rummaging the last
days of waste, and stood bold
on surest footing,
as though he, not I,
were on home ground,
or sensed in my stance
a kindred criminal that morning.

I could mention the colour of his exit,
how he disappeared across open ground
and bled into a rising sun,
and try to say something there
of endings and beginnings;
but I've lost the heart for it.

Or how even in a dream I turned, unsure,
looked up at the window's cross,
half expecting your dawn death-mask,
or one child or the other waving
a hello - a goodbye – still then
excuses could be stuttered,
sleepless hours,
a remembered loss or two
that soiled slumber -
and wanting to believe, you would.

We could stumble on much the same.

The latch is cold to the touch.
In my dream it does not make a sound,
the gate slips from my hand.
To the east the sun drives on, merciless,
the sky molten and erupting.

It could be a sign or a warning,
the denouement to an old country proverb -
or just the Earth turning towards its star.