Grandmother's Bed

In the darkness I ran into my grandmother’s room And clambered up into The high, four poster bed. Comforted by the imprint of her body, I lay there in the silence, Straining to hear, listening In the moonlight, leaf shadows played and danced across the ceiling above my head. They whispered to me. They told me stories of strange places where peculiar-shaped animals with limbs like tree branches invented games with faeries and elves and turned themselves into strange and fearful beings. In the distance a train whistle blew, long and mournful, hollow, like an empty stomach, making my bones shiver and my teeth ache. In the air were words I couldn’t hear. I could feel them blow into my ears and form letters, but I couldn’t understand Then my pillow was sweet smelling grass under my head, and I watched as clouds shifted shapes and murmured, their breath like mist over my body. Stars came out and the wind told the voices to be quiet, but the woman in the moon said “Shh”, and the stars and clouds melted away. The train whistle blew again in the distance It was lonely and full of sadness, and I cried, afraid, afraid of knowing the sadness. Now there are no leaf shadows, Only the whispers passed into memory, and, in the end, I understand and am no longer afraid.