Gill Horitz
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Dream
I’m at the window
watching the road
travelling in the wrong direction.
I see nothing bright or specific
just a continuous blankness
my duty must resolve
with a new nib,
to enclose everything
until the paper wears thin.
Behind me, my diaries
stacked to a height
of considerable risk,
every outing and encounter
contained, everything
I need never say again
on the point of collapse.
It’s all done. Each trumped
argument, everything complete.
The river, losing its chalky blue light
as soon as someone slips in.
Virginia Woolf (1882-1941)
Published in Of Some Importance: A Celebration,
Edited by Joy Howard, (Grey Hen Press)