Day Dream

To dream was to survive.

In my dream, which I could initiate

at will, I’m tending a smoking pile

of damp leaves. It is a dark,

late Autumn afternoon, and a fine drizzle

covers my hair with a delicate lace.

Now I’m entering a friendly

kitchen. No sound, save a low

womb-like hum, perhaps the aga,

and a girl with a wistful smile

coming towards me

in the warm light and drying

my face with a towel.

Twenty five years on, as I

mowed the lawn in the rain,

trying to unstitch a persistent

melancholy, you came out

and placed a coat over my shoulders.

And I knew I’d survived, and that

dreams really did come true.

John H Davies

29^th VIII 2010