Out of the sighs and breath of each small citizen
Clasped in his neutral bed with eye-lids locked
On the frail Pandora's box of consciousness,

Out of the blind susurrus of limbs
Moving like weeds within sleep's rhythmic waters,
Marked by the metronome of clock and moon,
Out of the shadowy cubes stacked carelessly
On night's blue nursery floor by infant men,
Rises the vast and tremulous O of dreams...

The knitting spider watches from her shelf,
The vague and changing shapes of furniture wait;
Now slippered ghosts grope down familiar stairs,

While from mysterious doorways, very soon,
The starlit insomniacs toddle, arms extending
Headless golliwog, frayed teddy, broken drum.

Down the long streets they go; they will not wake;
They will walk miles before they turn back, weary
Clutching dolls they could not give away.

Morning again will prise their fingers loose,
And all their playthings crumble into light.

~ Bruce Dawe
"Condolences of the Season"

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