Most of my dreams are stress-related, and when you get to the point where you recognize the neighborhood and realize you've been pursued by these werewolves in previous dreams, there isn't much to say about them.

But last night, I dreamed that I had to compose a eulogy for a very old and dear friend from my SCA / reenactment days, and had decided to do it as a song in the manner of 'Sir Patrick Spens' and 'Matty Groves'.  I remember tossing out some funny stuff that was too distracting, and I remember the last verse

So fly on up, ye little bird
As high as eer you can
And bid them throw wide Heaven's gate,
For we're sending you a MAN.

But the rest of it is gone.  I have no idea who I was writing it for, and I'm terrified to find out.


Decades ago, I read a poem by Ursula LeGuin about composing a poem before she fell asleep, and in the morning it was gone.  She said something like, If it was any good, you gods who live where sleep is, and further death goes, accept it as an offering.  Me too.