In This Dream

Things move so slowly in this dream –

The winter’s cold, at creeping pace,

Envelops us, and slaps our face,

Among the graves, with frost agleam

The frozen day hangs heavy on this place –


The wind emits a baleful cry;

As though in water, you and I,

Move slowly, almost painfully

Towards a stone we cannot see

Nor read it clearly, when we draw it nigh –


I look around now, you are gone;

But I expected that at last

It’s all sped up, the wind blows fast

And in this dream, now, pale and wan,

I slip where dirt’s among the snow amassed

Published by

Beleaguered Servant

Owen Servant is an online poet working in a style that's been described as "compulsive". In real life, he is an actuary, because being a poet wasn't unpopular enough.

3 thoughts on “In This Dream”

  1. Mournful tone, reminds me of the ghostly description of the moors at the end of Wuthering Heights, only your poem has more snow. You play with syntax, in doing so you create a more moving, song-like quality in your poem.

    Only criticisms would be the looming cliche, such as the “mournful” cry in the wind, and the cold “stinging” the face. Small changes would make your poem more unique. Great potential.

Leave a Reply