DREAMER:

In the arms of Morpheus & lidded leaden,

With limbs akimbo & corporeal deadened,

She slipped into the old realms of dreams,

Places where she lost control of schemes.

 Dreams were sweet in the nights of Junes,

Those of omens, Angels & the magic of runes,

Of coin-bottomed wells & sweet fairies smiles,

And pretty paths of flowers winding for miles.

Icy mistletoe cut by Druids with golden scythes,

Of sickle moons & old owls with emerald eyes,

Of pretty babes, begotten in the making of merry,

Floral frocks swirling in burgundy & rosy cherry.

Nights of deep winter, dreams of whispering wolves,

And of fire in the red eyes of those wild charging bulls,

Then, in the depths of her dark & restless hot slumber,

She´d hear Thor preaching in his voice of grey thunder.

In dawn´s awakening, she´d stretch & rub her glue eye,

Retracing her journey of dreams & then wondering why,

She was chosen to visit paths of these magic lost places,

While tiptoeing through sleep, leaving no visible traces.