Here in this room of growing old,

we gather around the pillowed chair

placed under the tarnished lamp

hiding the secretive spider

weaving the dream-catcher

to catch the flies of sleep.

And is it so important then to sleep,

to while away the hours until the night is old

allowing the ancient dream-catcher

to rock with rhythm of the weary chair,

the suspended spider

‘s web in the dusty  lamp?

Reaching up to tug the lamp

chain, would we then swing to sleep

hearing the spider

singing cobwebbed songs of old,

rock   rock   rocking to the rhythm of the chair

under the pale dream-catcher?

Slumber if we must.  Let the dream-catcher

send those fears to the canopied lamp.  

Still the rocking of the chair. 

Drift into the cavern of sleep   

farther from thoughts we could grow old

watched over by a spider.

chasing   the wilfulness of sleep

from the padding of the chair

that knows not it is a chair  

being rather the harbinger of the spider , 

who, when weaving is done, would sleep  

in the heart of the dream-catcher,

hiding pain in the depths of the lamp  

now known only to the old.

Do not dust the chair or clean the lamp.

Do not destroy the spider or dream-catcher,

‘Lest we grow old as we sleep.

 
Rebecah Hall