Two Poems by Andrew Shephard

Dream

My bags are in that room and you are too.

This corridor’s familiar, doors similar,

but something’s not quite right.

I turn left, climb stairs, turn right then right again,

still room, bags, you

are out of sight this roving

raving, hunting, night that feels like day

until I wake.

When I do, perhaps,

cloud curtains block the morning light.

I’m cold, exhausted from

a sheet-soaked night of searching

for room, bags, you

so close, I feel, but out of sight.

You must be found. You must!

Patiently then nervily then frantically I search.

I know the room is there, there was no sleight.

How come the building’s shifted style

and my room is out of sight?

I dream I wake. With heavy lids

I see a shape, it might be you, or someone like,

a misty silhouette in black and white

until another turn or strife

keeps you and everything that matters

to me just out of sight.

I’m stuck looking for a room that’s mine

a love that’s mine, a bag that’s mine,

scrabbling through a long twilight

for out-of-sight be-longings

up or down one flight.

All dreams end. I won’t give up, 

I'll toss and turn again tomorrow night.

Resolute

A blackbird sings in half-light

enticing the sun to rise sooner.

A blue tit taps a nest box entrance

conjuring a mate to appear.

A pigeon pair pose and coo on a roof

in the seconds between showers.

All are certain

summer is no dream.