Poem of the week: Week Four.

The last one under the theme ‘Beginnings and Ends’. This one is from Ruskin Bond’s Book of Verse, which was a gift. 

On Wings of Sleep
Ruskin Bond

On wings of sleep
I dreamt I flew
Across the valley drenched in dew
Over the rooftops
Into the forest
Swooping low
Where the Sambhur belled
And the peacocks flew.
And the dawn broke
Rose-pink behind the mountains
And the river ran silver and gold
As I glided over the trees
Drifting with the dawn breeze 
Across the river,
over fields of corn.
And the world awoke
To a new day, a new dawn. 

Time to fly home,
As the sun rose, red and angry,
Ready to singe my wings,
I returned to my sleeping form,
Creaking bed and dusty window-pane,
To dream of flying with the wind again.

Bond wasn’t a morning person, maybe. I like to think that in any case because neither am  I. I’m someone who never wakes up or goes to bed according to the clock, which is why I can relate to this poem. Bond, like me, probably doesn’t like to face the beginning of the end of dreams in the morning – since reality is just a “dusty window-pane”. 

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