Night Journey

Moonlight on hidden landscapes,


I see stars – points of light

On a thick black blanket.


Shimmering out of nowhere,

A table dressed in silverware

Reflecting skies  above.


Warmth within.

Watching strange places as they fly by,

And dark, lonely, forgotten parts.

Comfort inside.


Lulled slowly to sleep

By twists and creaks and distant horns,

A gentle rumble

Rocks your body and mind

Into a deep slumber

Past any cares

You may have left behind.


Written December 4, 2011 on an overnight train trip across the countryside

by Chantal Clarke



Grey floor.


I’m not here.

Dead. Gone. Lying on the floor.

Hard floor pressing against my ribs


Where am I?


For Life to start…

Never-ending clock: tick tock.

Between Life and Sleep.

Hazy grey Stasis.

Nothing moves,

except for the hands on the clock.


Hard to move

Hard to think,

Hard to feel.

I’m a grey haze



dragging along the ground.



Slowly creeping mire

Wanting to jump ahead

Onto one of those dry sunny sand bars…

But stuck in this flow

Agonizingly slow and relentless creep

Cuts off breathing, energy, will

Wanting to sleep,

but can’t sleep all day!

Give me a pot of water to boil!


Abbreviated version:

Slow, creeping mire

Jump ahead?




What else?

Pot. Water. Boil. Watch.