Dreaming nightly of dragons, strange to awaken -
fog thick in the meadows -
and glimpse him dozing there.
Big, bold, fantastic
as imagination long had promised;
his grey plates shifting
when the idle lungs drew breath.
The deep, enquiring eyes, conscious
of everything, how the world might come and go -
now fixed to my lonely window
and the amazed silhouette
waiting there.
What should I do? Slip
silently down and meet him
face to face? Indulge
in a mythically prolonged communion?
The desire raged furious -
but wisdom prevailed.
Only the heroic and wise
might parley with dragons,
and live to tell the tale.
I held a softer, safer ground,
nudging the curtains clear
for a better view; soaking
up this midnight vision
that memory might stay fertile
and a future story grow -
a legend to enchant and entertain.
Before dawn he rose
as if a greater purpose called
and heaved his bulk
again into the reclaiming night
scorching the lofty cypresses.
Daring to dream of dragons
night after night, I'd lured
him from the distant reaches
the farthest shore
where dragons flame and burn.
I dream of dragons still - but none return.