Dream Hares

That night the dream hares were early in their running

careful not to step on my lengthening shadow.

 

I ran with them across steep stony slopes,

past the dark mouth of a river, to where the sun

 

had bleached all colour from the grass.

What, I wondered, did all this say about me ?

 

I could smell the fug of autumn pelts, soft

against my fingers, felt myself succumb to a heavy heart.

 

The hares loved me, I was certain

and we lay together, purring, tight-bound in a circle.

 

For a moment I looked up, saw rain-heavy branches

of hazel; to the west an ancient track

 

along which countless others before me had walked.

The shape of my unconscious remained

 

crisp and clear; I was aware of myself,

conscious of the lie of it, as I suckled

 

in the warmth – in the fug –

filling myself with milk and wisdom.

 

Then morning came - cold misty jester of our isle.

Fearful, I suppose, I opened the curtains in an uncertain way.

 

My dream hares had gone. They had led me somewhere new,

to a place of open sky and open land,

 

dark and still in places, or else partially lit by lucid beams

penetrating wild forming clouds.

 

I lingered a while at the window,

waiting for a new animal to appear  –  

 

a fox cub, red bright with emerald morning eyes.

I watched as his thin flanks moulted away

 

beyond reason, consciousness, and knowledge.

He ran from my garden, far into the distance,

 

where he stood licking the glistening face

of a lake, filling me with joy and a strange

 

unknowing, as if I too had run towards

a glimmer of death without fear.