The Dream

I have a dream

To fill the golden sheath

          of a remembered day. 
     

Air      

Heavy and massed and blue

          as the vapor of opium …           

Domes

Fired in sulphurous mist …       

Sea     

Quiescent as a gray seal,                   

And the emerging sun   

Spurting up gold          

          over Sydney smoke-pale,     

          rising out of the bay.       

But the day is an upturned cup,         

And its sun a junk of red iron   

Guttering in sluggish-green water.         

Where shall I pour my dream?

Lola Ridge


(Picture: Swamp in a forest mist, Fyodor Vasilyev)