From a Child's Nighttime

 

 

It’s past my bedtime, the sky’s a screen and Laurence Olivier is fleeing

through a forest, dark branches clutching, clawing at him;

a gothic tale, a black and white drama.

Running onward, not towards, but away from somewhere, someone,

something, the story I haven’t seen;

before him the story still to be told.

I am at my window, the land I know is gone;

I am alone beneath the expanse of the Heaven's adventure;

I watch it, take it to my bed, trust tomorrow my country will return.