I'm walking by the river in the dark hours

I'm walking by the river in the dark hours:
The water – coursing roughly round my mind –
A metaphor, a vision flanked by dream flowers.
The pathway overgrown and rarely signed.

I'm racing on ahead, not quite alone, but out of sight
Where the snow upon the mountains gives a glow of lunar light
That reaches through the gloom into the corners of the night
And settles of the shadowed landscape, tinging it with white.

What happens next is something of a mystery,
A dream undreamt, a story still untold.
I might yet join the circus, or tour history,
Or stumble on that stolen pot of gold.

Whatever will take place is not decided.
As yet no plot, no characters, no themes.
Instead I wake and find myself divided
One half in life, the other in my dreams.