Falling

Falling


Always the white cliff.
Then you find yourself falling
in the darkness of dream.
There are no trees
on the cliff, only the stubble of grass.
But there is no time
to ponder the grass
because suddenly you are
wingless in mind-air.

You cannot comprehend
why then dream,for all its recurrence,
shows no other ciphers.
You cannot recall
if you choose to jump off,
but your are certain
no one pushes you,
not your wife,
not one of your brooding sons.

And falling you wake up,
grateful for waking,
for the certainty of your bed,
your wife's breathing,
the choices of the working day
coming into light.
What, after all, is the life of a man
when he begins to measure it
against the dark?

The cliff is white,
necessary contrast to abyssal hues.
It is solid as the fear
you grip when you fall
or let go if you keep falling,
falling mindfully,
on what could be
a slow orbit
around strange new fire.