In a flash, it was gone.

Waking: The time the dream stops; right then at the crucial point when-
The image runs, terrified of a new, gentle light-
Flees from the opening eyes that let 
It
in.
But the dream goes on, regardless, for a moment longer,
transparent images float by, a sound, a smell perhaps;
The story unfolds just the little more, silent, as
It
peers in.

In the dream is a picture. A picture of some trees.
It is a picture on a wall. A wall in a room.
Wood floor, polished, burnished, tarnished.
Red walls, old paint peeling and cracking in the corners.
A high roof, pressed iron pained old white.
A door in the wall, a hallway someplace too, the same.
No windows, but a fireplace that is old.
And a floorboard is cracked, near to the hearth.
Cold, stale air seeps in, moistness apparent.
People are in the room. The people are all listening.
A group of people sit near the burning fire.
One person sits apart, to the back, cold.
One person sits opposite, chatting, also cold.
Two people are lonely, but together.

Light bursts in.
Sound pours in.
Warmth floods in.
Aromas barge in.

It, the coming day arrives,
And the dream is finally gone.