No turning

I dreamt a ferryboat dream where,
crossing some unknown stretch of deep,
we struck another time and you
were lost into the depths of There,
and, Orpheus, I wandered far
where loss and past commingled in
faint glimpses of your head – behind
only, never quite your face.
And when re-united, by those turns
that dreams sometimes have when full known,
I wondered where within the tale
we stood – if I had turned behind
and lost you, only now to have
you back again, in some sweet form
of ancient woe retold with joy,
or if the worst was yet to be.
All dreams will pass, and I awoke,
the ferry gone, and all of our
dark passings-by now still.
And in the stasis of the night,
I looked up to the ceiling, through
the roof, to stars – white-bright, though dead –
and still were all night’s ferryboats;
no shadow turned, or clung onto
the glimpse of dreams to be.