I love these little lights,
Small beams from scattered blue,
The dress of quiet daffodils,
In patient eyes a muse,
Caged fireflies in heights,
Above the weathered pews,
The steamy half forgetfullness,
That hangs off window views.

Confronted with a lofty ray,
Tugging out all nascent life,
From buds and verdant fields afresh,
The air is elevated at its coming,
The golden hues so tender pull
The truest colours of the reeds,
And dance in robes of white on gentle streams.

"Accosted by a flippin' fox",
And other such outrageous sayings,
From people I shan't see again,
Except after such a baffling refrain,
These people - where do they come from,
Such perfect strangers' mutterings,
Incomprehensible so respendant gold,
To light the day with exhaled laughs:

"I put it in the microwave,
And that wasn't good,
So just give 'em a pound"

I see you there,
The floating bastion,
Austere in raging, fragile might,
Ever passing like the countless vessels of deepest sleep,
So drift alone - elusive on the non-Euclidian waves,
Dance alone - trancelike by the shores of burning ice,
Dread alone - steadfast under the weight of sharp realities that eat...
Dream vessel of impending past,
Be drenched in purple blues and clearest cyan,
Translucent like the crystal's shards,
Begone now,
And recede into the lifting dream.