165

Eliot woke in
            No light and rode along for
                        Some minutes in the half
Stirrup of the remains of his dream
            And he was sleeping
                        And knew he was and passing
From thought to thought
            As from colour to colour
                        As the wall grew chalkwhite
In the last of the dark and
            Rode on, but couldn't stop the
                        Light falling in.
The womb, dark, was shot through
            With white veins, he was
                        Cradled in a white sailboat
With a name, and its wood
            Knocked as it tossed in the wind and
                        The trees blew.
It all played back again and he
            Picked parts and abstracted them
                        Like seedheads from a handful of
Grass and turned them
            In his sight until
                        He had fallen back into sleep.
The water lapped.
            Sometime later that morning it
                        Started to rain and he came
To, sweating, because his head had
            Fallen between the mattress and
                        The wall. It was light outside.