In the first draft of the dream

The woodpecker

Is pecking

A hole in the fore-runner

Of another.

In the destiny hour’s

Derring-do.

In the War

Of Independence.

In the cheek of a cloud

That hardly ever

Retreats.

In the second draft of the dream

Only the wilding jasmine

Stirs within

The bottomless

Sand vial

Without knell – and

The hollowing

Hell

Of felled branches

    That shriek.

                                                    ~Stefanie Bennett

                                                      Lismore, Australia