in the quiet hour, between 

three and four I wake as if 

to take the air,

dream demons have fled 

to dim corners to await

their second chance,

in this still, in this dark

thin mysterious night

I begin to word fish in the 

fathomless lake of memories

tiny silver sild flash past my eye

like bright ideas but skillfully 

avoid my grasping net,

the hour is cold, the words

torpid and uninterested,

I dip and snatch hopelessly 

as the early morning chorale 

begins its trill and dream ghasts

tiptoe ever closer back 

toward my bed

© Graham R Sherwood 03/25