I sit awake where once I was slumbering
And face the great clouds that dream me numbering
The hours of the day and the minutes of my self
Where I cannot espy the mountains of Hobbit or Elf.

Then why does my imagination wander? Why is there care?
Why do I fascinate on what is not palpably there?
As the demure misty evapourated silk drifts past my visage
There is space in me for errors of horse and carriage.

Maybe I am wandering in an astral plane with Lord Tolkien?
Could it be I am in the past with Queen Victoria and her calling?
As I write and am baulked by the chalky coloured gaseous substance
To reveal my own inner essence lest I am appeared to disappear in trance.

Screening from right to left, there is nothing left of me as the Sun’s promise
Yet you did not talk to me about your hidden powers when you eliminated my vice
By giving me something to look at and stare, so self-help aware,
That I cannot but give thanks for the pages that pour forth as a dare.

These are the chairman’s words from the ad hoc bedroom where he sleeps
Drifting like the raining contrite ether that envelops these words, shallow and deep;
From them stems forth a day and more voicelessness to be recorded and noted
So that the nature that is outside my window can finance nakedness that is bought.