WS George
writer
composer
The Demon at my Bedside
This begins with the memory of a dream this morning. Whatever circumstances led to the present situation are unclear. I remember a room, or some other confined space, grey or rusted. Uninviting. I remember someone, probably Asian, standing in front of me, or before whoever I happened to be at that moment. He must have been tired, sweaty. I remember a white long-sleeved shirt with the sleeves folded up. There must have been blood.
He was leaning forward, one hand on a knee, another holding some weapon. I remember a large, metal beam. Sometimes it appears to be a cutlass, or a rifle. Whatever it was was meant to kill me. Perhaps that was his intention - to strike out and kill me. There was enough hostility in the atmosphere. A spark could have provoked any one...
- The Demon at my Bedside
- On Contemplating the News of a Friend’s Death
- So Far, So Very Good
- Three Poems for a Friend
- The Death of Princeford
- The Artist and the Builder
- I must have Drunk too much Ambrosial Wine
- Our Brother Fell Back Home
- On Beauty in Music
- Written with Permission later that Evening
- When They Come Asking
- Mary May
- Hello, World
- From Beyond
- Change
