I don't understand sleep,
one moment, here and the next, there.
We cross over without seeing the way,
the path stretches out never-ending some nights.
Other times, like the old story books,
“Asleep before her head touched the pillow!”
Where is it, the little gate?
Or the stile from path to field?
Where do we touch the latch,
one hand resting on a withered frame,
the rest of the body leaping up,
caught in the drowse and taken.
I was always afraid of that gap,
the moment between life and dreams,
Looking for it, hoping for a glimpse
of what has fallen with me.
Pulled out of sleep by the lightest touch
on the side of my face.
Look it full in the face for as long as it takes
to blink: in terror, drawing back,
stay from knowledge or be drowned in it,
a void in my travels where the path has grown dark.
Those nights I lay awake
and count myself blessed not to dream.
©Amanda J Harrington 2015