Hold tight now as we glide above the night-gray slates of village rooftops. <br />Look into the chambers, where in creased pyjama beds, <br />the sleeping, wrinkle the sheets in unconscious feats of love and derring do. <br /> <br />Through this window, see the landlord deep in his beer-stained dream, <br />pull a pint using his wife's sleeping arm, and shout 'last orders' <br />into the face of a three o' clock, clock. <br /> <br />Quiet now, and listen to the threats of the cowboy, who hunts for outlaws <br />in the velvet grasses and pine smelling playground of forests, <br />that nurture the young minds of invented play. <br /> <br />Watch as the vicar passes out bread and fish to his parishioners, <br />and snores a sermon of Godliness as he blesses <br />the multitude on an unknown, rock scattered mount. <br /> <br />In this house of ill repute, the village whore dreams of <br />new 'leopard skin' shoes, from under her purple satin sheets <br />as she reaches a lifeless arm, feels for the money on her bedside table. <br /> <br />In the graveyard the 'duty ghost' fights to stop the wind <br />from lifting her trick-of-the-light gown; exposing her underwear <br />to the late drinker and slinking, graveyard cat. <br /> <br />Do you love the way the flint of the chapel glints in a moonlight shaft? <br />Can you hear the silent screams, under the mounds of new flowers?<br /><br />Ian Bowen<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dream-watchers/
