Grisaille

(The inability to recall dreams).

Wednesday yawns, and the call to sleep,
to rinse the once fast colours of my memories
that history feints to vague affairs.
Who was that beauteous girl
who ran like the fawn, quink on her fingers,
who smelled of cold toast?
Alas gone, forever
dancing through the flimsy leaves
in a Morphean maze of tangled veils,
no footprints left
my brief ecstacy turned to loss,
no evidence caught as lambs wool on a briar,
tumultuous pleasure at such costly price.
I wake, full knowing of the robbery
but cannot list my loss.