This is the room that dream built.
This is the flare, afire in the room that dream built.
This is the doubt that stumped the flare, afire in the room that dream built.
This is the force that kills the doubt that stumped the flare, afire in the room that dream built.
And in this room –
shadow dreams – still to be called out –
fasten on floors, walls
fingered into force…
to get a job,
to write an opera,
spill water from salvation wells.
To bike one-handed,
be a patient teacher,
be braver – stop double-guessing myself.
To travel – photographing humanity,
to dance –
to remember our wedding anniversary,
make people laugh,
get a degree.
To awake from a deep sleep
and, left on the pillow, seventy six years –
every selfish thought, unintended cruelty,
After this, with lighter feet, to set off for an encore,
knowing what I didn’t before –
what a dream!
And as we watch,
shadows split, form –
these fissions of dreams.
You say, ‘Is this what makes me human and a dreamer
and inhabitant of the dreamscape –
that gap that glints between brain – synapse – space?’
Did we always carry torch-dreams through this place?
Through the hot, sugary exploits –
the smell of the beet, the sound of this beat
the smell and the sound and the feel of this beat
Through the chip fat, manure, chicken tikka, damp peat,
the whiff of our pedigree keratin treats?
We carried them!
And sometimes, it’s not just unpicking that’s needed,
but a wrenching of innards and mind –
a birthing-dream-ritual with no assistance or advice.
Some get left in the vacuum of bankrolls
and that all-too-conceited Time.
‘If only I had the time!’
This is the room, the house, the city that dream built.
This is the flare, afire in the city that dream built.
This is the force that fires the flare, afire in the city that dream built.
Fan this fire.