I’ve been thinking about trying to write some poetry recently but haven’t been able to focus on much, let alone stringing together coherent words that somewhat resembles poetry. But I thought I wrote a poem recently, and yet I couldn’t remember it. There were only three lines, two of them good. I think about a bird and the winds and waters when I think about this poem, and I think about my partner. But I don’t know what the lines are because I wrote them in a dream. I was so convinced that I was sitting at my desk writing them but couldn’t remember them at all. It was like trying to remember a dream, with just a vague understanding of feeling and fleeting images. And then I realised it was actually a dream itself.

I’ve never dreamt about writing before. At least I don’t remember it. I probably have, given how often I dream. But the setting was so realistic that it was one of those times where I really couldn’t remember if it was real or not. I wish I could write in my sleep and remember. That would be neat. A lot of stories are formed from my dreams, so I guess that’s the next best thing.

But to sum it up, I couldn’t put together a poem.

Maybe I can give it a go now.

I remember leaves, billowing past a window,
And the softness of sea spray,
Blue fabric, purple silk,
A golden sheen on the window sill,
I’m at peace, but I don’t know this place,
But still, I’m at peace,
As I gaze out over the green fields,
That ripple gold in the winds,
The trees recite poetry of their own,
A soft rattle in the air that fills me,
It sounds like peace, I am at peace,
I don’t know this place,
But still, I am at peace.