Poem: "In the Wildscape of My Dreams"

Rachel E. Watson

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(Photo: Free images)

Wildscape

By Rachel Watson

I met an old friend last night

in the wildscape of my dreams.

It had been a dozen years

since we last locked eyes.

I saw him sitting

at my mother’s kitchen table

in a sunny wildflow’r garden

next to the ladder on a treehouse.

He leaned back, tipping his chair,

with that middle-parted hair,

grinding deep grooves in the ground

while I regarded him anew.

I asked if he recalled basement jams

and living room horror film fests.

He smiled at me sardonically

and answered me laconically.

The years had not been kind:

I saw it in his gaunt, hollow features,

his spare, worn clothing,

and the cracks and stains in his nails.

How did such hardness spin

from a childhood I thought we shared?

Then I reflected that he held little

of my own family’s story, too.

For all I knew, he saw the garden,

the table, the treehouse, the chairs,

and pitied me in the way I pitied him

for not getting out. For staying put.

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About Post Author

Rachel E. Watson

I think, read and write. I might mull on music, spin original poems, share insights or tell stories, but you can be sure whatever you read here comes from a thoughtful and considered place within.

Rachel E. Watson