Fugitives on Earth

I had a nightmare in the early hours of the morning after Good Friday, and scribbled down what I remembered in my phone. This is a poem based on my dream.

When did it turn?
We looked up
And didn’t know.
The moon had curled like a worm.

Strange father.
Hunting neighbours.
We cannot remember
If someone had said
There would be no water.

Trace your steps back
To the woods
Familiar and unfamiliar.
Five men, old and older,
Their beards short and grey,
Smiling, and he
Is going to burn her.

Run with her,and dive
Like the hunted hare into a cab.
Drive like mad –
The empty highway will try top stop you.

Run to the river
(Is there water?)
Moving back
Through the crowds;
But there he is.

He grabs you –
Someone grabs him –
The nightmare ends
Clinging to the bars
Of an old window your hands found.
Where were we, and who were they?

This may be unlike anything I’ve ever written, but I think it isn’t too bad. Not that many of my friends will like it, of course, but we can’t please everyone – certainly not with our own dreams.


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