Dream at Graeme Hall
by Lawrence B. Bannister
My love and I
elope
to lands of sweet imagining
where dreams have no beginning,
no end,
as arm in arm we stroll down linger lanes
criss-crossed by trails planed smooth by lovers
bent on fond pursuit of self-same grail
and light on Graeme Hall lake,
who makes up pristine face
where lucid water flows,
paints pouting lips
full-blown summer rose,
while craggy brows combing cloudy skies
pencil shadows round
limpid fish-pool eyes.
We lower night’s scratchy-wisp half-door,
close mahogany-branch jalousies,
hang moon’s kerosene lamp from sooty ceiling,
hold hands
where green lizard creeps,
flaunting yellow wattle
in lecherous anticipation
of clandestine assignation;
kiss
where Black-eyed Susan peeps,
lie
where Moss Rose grows
and Tuberose
throws her sweet perfume
on the enchanting stillness of our room.
Web-footed herons
clamber watery stairs;
spurning pedestrian earth,
walk on air:
like match-sprint cyclists keeping with the pace,
surfing slipstream in devil-take-the-hindmost race,
uplift brothers and sisters liming on the block.
Iridescent wings bright glazed
portray constellations, now
Orion,
hunter of the East,
now
Aquarius,
water-bearer,
now
the glittering Pleiades.
Four-mast, square-rigged egret column
barrels down,
ploughing sea-blue sky,
then, at a whim, retreats,
coils its snake, crossing killer T,
replaying Trafalgar
when Nelson led the Windward line
and Collingwood the lee…
mimicking Land-Ship’s epaulettes, and braids,
trimming jib, lowering boom,
plaiting maypole
on a Sunday afternoon.
Bearded Fig-Tree,
conductor of woodland orchestra
standing on tree-root dais,
bows stiffly from gnarled arthritic waist,
raises baton, puts players on alert…
points to frenetic Storm, who lashes lurid skies,
flashes forked lightning. Thunder peals then dies,
prologue to mighty crescendo to end all crescendos
as Earth beats drum with ten-Richter shocks and
old organ player pulls out all the stops.
Water hisses,
gullies gush,
trees uproot
till Fig-Tree says, “Hush, enough,”
invokes idyllic sound, pastoral symphony.
Sun comes out.
Fracas mutes.
Whistling frogs tune two-note flutes.
Blackbirds
strum mangrove strings,
barring frets with shiny wings
inking crochets, bending vines,
keeping time with metronome behinds.
Grasshoppers bow squeaky violins.
Quick March breeze plays woodwinds.
Crickets carry karaoke tune,
bloated toad blows big bassoon
and under the eaves
raindrops natter
a syncopated pizzicato.
Dove coos Wendy Alleyne blues.
Donkey baritones break of day.
Sparrow soprano cracks high-C ceiling.
Night to her murky haunts retires.
Fowl-cock tenor from his paling perch inspires.
Dawn’s aria raises curtain, lets in daylight.
I wake
and you
have vanished with the night
like will-o’-the-wisp that steals sunlight.
“My love, where is your love, your touch, your kiss?
Where are your lips?
Still
the warm sheet billows.
Still
the dented pillow yields your touch.
Alone I wait
and feel your warm embrace
replay your voice,
your kiss,
your face
till sleep and dreams return
and you are mine.
