This afternoon

the river was pale
mirroring the soft grey sky
ripples flowed slowly
random undulations
that carried the glance
of the reader away from his page
and back and away and back
until he drooped in his chair
and the book slid down beside him

he did not wake for the drone
of a far off motor nor the
cacophonic laugh of a heron
winging homeward overhead
children could play raucously
a few yards over but he
was walking the halls
of a routine from years before
halls that were real as
the book beside him which
held no reality in the dream

The words in the pages
awoke and looked at his
silent face at his eyes
twitching horizontally in rem sleep
and mistook this twitch for reading
they spilled out of the book
like ants on a quest
with pincers poised ready
to dig into his skull open his brain
ride blood surges into his eyes
and be read there

a butterfly landed on his nose
woke him and he shrugged away
the fuzzy channels of sleep
and continued reading
hearing occasional lapping
that came into shore from
the passage of a boat
so far away on the pale water
it was only a memory.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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