Shallow Dreams

I fell into a shallow dream as often as I have, and do; amongst sleep and wake where things seem so nebulous between the two. A dead leaf floating down a stream; the cold unknown lurking below;  the radiance of sun on high, slow winding in the gentle flow while some familiar friends drop by; a mourning dove, a cawing crow. There’s wonder in our shallow dreams just past the point of counting sheep, where nothing is quite what it seems; a world half in, half out of sleep; where laughter interposes screams. You can awake; it’s true to say, sometimes awash with burning guilt; did I really she betray? Whose crimson blood was it that spilt? The bedclothes wet, in disarray.