The Dream-Mender

The dream-mender’s workshop is as you’d expect:

Soaked with never-mores and the smell of regret,

But here in the darkness she weaves and she sings,

Setting the bones of the broken dreams’ wings.

The dream-mender’s tool bench is cluttered and filled

With fragile things whimp’ring and clicking and still,

But she cuts and she cleans and she sews them anew,

She sharpens their cogwheels; replaces the fuse.

And out fly the mended dreams, glowing with hope,

And in shuffle more; some drag others with rope;

They’re bruised and they’re broken like ragged tin soldiers,

But the dream-mender smiles and heats up her solder.

The dream-mender’s workshop is noisy and rushed,

For dreams they are fragile and easily crushed;

They’re trod into pavements; crushed underfoot;

Locked away without sunlight and drowned in black soot.

But here in the lamplight, beneath a curved glass,

She smooths over scars till they shine like new brass.

Till glinting and gliding like shoals of gold fishes,

They return to the dreamers on wings plucked with wishes.