MENTAL MEAL AND
ALL THIS MAGIC
While my dog sleeps upon the couch, I herald
the dreams of my own which come my way.
Not a yip or slight bark, none of those playful
sleep-sounds of a dog, mine are, by contrast,
roars : can be heard a mile away, peel the
wallpaper, break the glass. I can do nothing
about it. Just sleep the sleep of rest, and hope
the hope of the best. It was William Blake
who wrote : 'Rintrah roars and shakes his
fires in the burdened air.' That's a bit too
much for me to do, but I like it nevermind.
I am a man of singular bent - 'rage, rage
against the dying of the light' - to quote
another on a similar plight. It's mental meal
and all this magic keeps me going for sure :
round every bend I see, a roar and another
sound may be.