Each day that dawns is but the thief of dreams,
the tattered veils of thought that drift through night.
They make good sense in sleep, though now the seams
are split, unable to withstand the light.
The weaving comes adrift like swirls of mist
that dissipate in rays of morning sun;
the mantle disappears, though strands persist
with which to build the domes of Kubla Khan.
For poets can, at times, rework remains
with careful, stitched-up words to form a quilt,
a patchwork made of fragments from their brains –
a Xanadu of pleasures that’s rebuilt.
Though daylight looms, a poet still may weave
a weft of dreams from silk the moths reprieve.
Copyright Antony Fawcus 2020