From slumber deep, last night I wakened from my sleep, <br />Though still unclear if dawn would break and end my fear <br />For I had dreamed that things had been not what they seemed <br />Quite indistinct from seldom-seen mystery, linked <br />To ancient tales from long ago where, with black sails, <br />A pirate ship sailed away, slow, over the lip <br />Of the horizon, to be lost where stormy skies <br />Brooded so dark and rough seas tossed each tiny barque <br />Or even mighty flagship or galleon bright <br />That dared to steer its way before the gale, severe <br />As any blast they might encounter. As the mast <br />Shook, creaked and bent, with seething fountains of spume sent <br />Crashing furiously on the deck, I was curious <br />As I sailed out, risking my neck to see, no doubt <br />A ghostly form: the Flying Dutchman, on the storm, <br />An eerie sight that was too much in that dark night <br />For me to take. It was that fear that made me wake, <br />Relieved, at last, shedding a tear, that night had passed, <br />And morning light would soon shine through my window, bright <br />With happiness of day to soothe my deep distress.<br /><br />C Richard Miles<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/dreamstorm/
