The
children are young again,
chuntering
and chattering as they climb up the stairs.
The door
has become half glass, glass greasy and grimy,
grimy and
greasy with the passage of time.
Yet I can
see through it, see the young children,
chuntering
and chattering as they climb up the stairs.
Their
father is with them, a leash looped round his neck.
(The
eldest is tugging him pulling him as they climb up the stairs.)
He tugs
off the leash, I hear him dial a number,
hear him
ask quizzically: What’s it with the
roast?
This room
has rats in it, I hear them
scratching
and scurrying, there’s a tail
twixt the
books and the brandy, and fearful I tug it,
but tis
only a shoelace and I sigh with relief.
The fire
is guarded as coals rage in their anger,
and warmth
beckons me over and I sit down beside it,
sit down
beside it in a fat comfy armchair as
children
chunter
and chatter as they climb up the stairs.
Their
father, black hair full of rats’ tails, looks
through
the half glass, mouth open and hanging,
eyes
startled and staring as I beckon him in.
He is gone
in an instant and the door is quite solid
as
children screaming and screeching fall down the stairs.
I sit by
the fire, raging in anger
as I don’t
understand it; I don’t get it at all.
The rats
are scurrying and scratching
in the
space neath the ceiling and children
are
screeching and screaming as they fall down the stairs.
I sit in
my armchair, my mouth full of brandy,
weeping
and wailing as I don’t get it at all.
Anna :o]
The above
is based on a dream I recently had, a dream that remained quite vivid long
after I had woken. The dream took its
location in the first floor flat we lived in, our first home after marriage. As bits of the dream began to disappear from
my memory, I wrote what I could remember down.
Brandy wasn’t part of it, the shoelace twixt books and an old gramophone,
but I couldn’t get the gramophone to ‘fit’ into the poem, so brandy it became.
I love
dreams, thinking them more entertaining than television, and if dreams do have
a meaning, a subconscious message, I don’t understand mine at all.
Freud believed
that our dreams are a window into our subconscious and reveal our unconscious
desires, thoughts and motivations. He
believed they are a way for us to satisfy our urges and desires that are
unacceptable to society.
Some of
the dreams I have are quite startling and if Freud is right, I think I need
sectioning…
Shared with the good folk at dVerse OLN, hosted by the lovely Grace.
Image: courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
