top of page
  • Writer's pictureTuur Verheyde

Half-sleep Shard-scenes

A poet sleeps

To steal Dream’s

Shattered scenes;

Their stories flee

The breaking



A half-hill in black

Sailing on a lake

Of ashen mist.


Vermillion skies

Meet a bludgeoned cop

Car on the road.


Clouds like coal

Encroach on a quaint



A wave-worn sloop

Nears long-missed

Pearl cliffs.


A wandering child

Breaches a hedge

To greet the grim

Forest edge.


A back-lander uncovers

Unbidden mourning

In the winnowing white.


Beneath a ruined arch

Whispers spill secret

Histories as the twilight



In the lost nether dark

A winged flare guides

The herald hither.


There’s a Tolkien-esque

Divergence where

Green prevails

Yet roles reverse.


A bald man twirls

On a sword like a Beyblade,

His head blindfolded,

One arm raised towards

The furrowed dusk.


A game of chess

On a whaling ship

Ends when the leviathan

Rises. Darkness follows

As marine blue blobs

Are eaten in a candid



A fisherman leans

Over the jetty’s edge,

Gazing through the sodden

Murk to meet, in a blink,

An undine smirk.


Light-years away

A being interrogates

The sky: Where are the children

You promised before? Can we

Hope for their descent?


A crag creature burrows

Deep beneath your home,

Sculpting hollows to house

Its foundling godhead.


A woodland warden

Finds our faded traces;

She leaves her own

To herd us home.


An apocalypse spent

Gazing at flame-fall

And starlight tears,

Watching endings,

As beginnings unveil.


You, scrambling

Through a cardboard

Warren, tearing its walls

To reveal endless paper



Me, transcribing

Scriptures of ineffable

Sanctities, sowing

Meaning only through

The serendipitous

Variety of being.


And on goes the drift

Into occult bodies

Of senseless seeing. You and I,

Eternal castaways,

Kissing the shores of veiled

Subconscious, sniffing

Its salts, snatching its precious

Shard-shells to save

And unseam.

bottom of page