Resting on the stairway,
Sleep is on the tired brow.
A book lies there before her,
A new journey starting now.
All the figures of her book,
Now leap out around the sleeping girl.
With mists and images intertwining,
An effervescent whirl.
The pages are now just blank sheets of paper,
Each story is played out in the air.
Enacted around the sweeping stairway,
By the maiden fair.
There is the scene now showing,
Of the man who seeks to woo his love,
He charms her with his dashing,
And his gift of a pure white dove.
Also there is an angel who visits,
Blessing the child she's come to see.
Then there's the woman in the tower,
Whom rescuers have come to free.
These, and many other playlets,
Have a linking theme to share.
In each there is a maiden,
Like the one upon the stair.
Suddenly, she wakens slightly,
The figures vanish without a trace.
The mists sprinkle into thin air,
The book is filled up, all in place.
Awake, the girl is slightly puzzled,
What did happen here?
Was it a dream, or more than that,
Did something magical appear?
Night time is coming swiftly,
And so she slowly climbs the stair.
To bed, but clutching firmly,
Her book of dreams to share.
© Graham
July, 2004
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