Slow seeds

I’m lying on my lonely bed 

while Dylan’s tunes grow in my head. 

Out in the rainy street a siren is whirring. 

Day fades slowly into twilight 

and I switch on the bedside light. 

Inside my tranquil room, my thoughts are stirring. 

There, in the noisy world outside 

order and chaos coincide 

while all is still inside my peaceful room. 

I read from Dylan’s poetry; 

the slow seeds of his imagery 

take root inside my mind’s poetic womb 

Bob / Dylan / Thomas – sages, 

on the tracks and off the pages, 

each assails my brain with poignant verse. 

Rage against the dying light 

you precious angel of the night, 

and each in time will quench my curious thirst. 

 

Steve Wheeler © 4 January, 2021

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