The Land of Dreams (A Bed-time Story)


Is there a dream that is yet to be dreamt?
And if so, where do these un-dreamt dreams reside?

I imagine it’s a sacred place of moonlit caves and gentle streams.
Dark crevices, harbouring twinkling miracles of night-visions,
And glowing raindrops of a stranger’s yesteryear.
Where moss grows stubbornly upon the dampened walls,
But does not cover the tiny, stardust footprints that
Illuminate the underlying rock-face, leaving tell-tale tracks
Of where once un-dreamt dreams were hidden.
But they lead, now, only to empty spaces.

If such a place exists, who decides which dreams should remain?
And which should be cast into the night air,
Free to float intimately though personal air and inner feelings?

I imagine winged dream-fairies direct these chosen few.
With delicate wings of lace, trimmed with feathers, and stars in their eyes,
These twinkle-cheeked airy postmen flutter gently among the clouds,
Leaving lustrous trails in their wake, and illuminating the surrounding darkness.
The shooting dream-stars know not how to hate or fear, only to love and cherish,
And with precise and delicate hands,
They cleanse the feathered webs of sleep-safe –
For they are the nursemaids of dreamcatchers too.

To be such an entity would be a blessing beyond the realms of imagination.
We could walk the land of undreamt dreams and unrealised aspirations,
And pluck from a trickling stream, someone’s future sleep-light.

I know that somewhere in that place, is my tonight’s dream.
I will be a dream Columbus,
Sailing the sea of hopes and desires,
So that I can discover a world of dreams
That exceeds expectation
And tears down barriers of belief.