Dreams hand out
armfuls of antidote
to that mixed-up mixture
restoring that which
waking tries to destroy.

A nightingale, brown dot
from an eagle’s eye,
flies serenely through
summer’s open window
to alight on my hand,
feet like whispers
trusting no fat cat
is here.

Then beak open,
unlocked out of love,
a melody soars
from a field of agony –
so fragile, so strong,
shooting stars into bright places
for a world that sleeps
and dreams of peace.

 © Vivien Steels

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