What a gleeful chest of stolen images,
Waking life grants us its treasures
For wondrous taking, bestows a
Swaying form: an owl astride a wire, a
Turning, curious figure above the
Abandoning dark, the dust-weight of
Night ascending slowly through the hues
Like a child’s playful hand delighting
To run fingers over coloured pencil tin,
Feel each barrel’s braille-story sing
From heaviest blue to the lightest
Daylight where we feed on afterimages,
Years string together living dreams that
Dwindle to be reborn in our owl hours.