It may not be this me

The  small birds are singing above me
Two  hearts are entwined in my dreams
I shall need  to be here when you call
For I have a vocation for life.
And I need to write  at  least fifty poems
Before    autumn weather arrives

The  man in the raincoat  bereaved
Had a large parcel for me.
It was the  book of your mother’s   new poems
Just as I saw in my dreams
There were sonnets and tercets of sorts
I did not recognise others  at all


I wonder will my  cousin  call
I so  want  to see him arrive
After   a meta- journey by horse and by cart
Is  the poetry reminiscent of me?
My nightmare and all of my dreams
Contribute to the themes of my poems

The illusions I create in my  dreams
Have their voices and they play  their part
But illusions are not aimed to  decide
They are soporific   nightmares on TV
I roam all around in my rhymes
Till a metaphor arrives to oblige.

I wonder if the schema of dreams,
More often our wishes distort;
So it  is transcribed in our poem
What possibility drives
The collection of folk I call me?
But it may not be this me at all.