When nights are cold and windy
and everyone’s indoors,
strange creatures leave their burrows
to gather people’s snores.
Above the sleeping village
as the clock chimes half past two
they know where they are going
and they know what they must do.
They are rolling down the hillside,
they are furry, small and black,
all are softly whistling
and each one has a sack.
Slipping into houses
and creeping up the stair
to fill their sacks with floating snores
they pluck out of the air.
Whispering and sighing
from the warmth of people’s rooms
the Snore Collectors waddle home
to weave the snores on looms.
When they reach their workshops
hidden deep beneath the ground,
their smiles are full of wonder
and they laugh – but make no sound.
They spin for many hours
and they weave without a pause
till each one has a tapestry
of dreams, made out of snores.
The cloth is fine as gossamer,
the colours seem to be
of autumn in the forest
and sunsets on the sea,
of music and of lavender
pure beyond compare,
of fishes in the river
and castles in the air.
When all is done they huddle round
their campfires in the night,
the little ones feel warm and tired
and hold each other tight.
As the wind is dying
and stars shine in the sky
the old ones sit and reminisce
of times and dreams gone by.
When nights are cold and windy,
back down the hill they’ll creep
with little sacks a-bulging
full of dreams to bless your sleep.
(This poem was written in 1975 but I still like it)