Monday, 6 December 2010

And I dreamt

And I dreamt my uncle sat on a sack
At the back of the tractor
his brother the driver
And I squeezed in, somehow
my feet on a chain that held something
And some sway as our exhaust wheezed o'er the hill

The sky, the sea, the sand slipped by
Leaving farm-house and fireside far below.

The keepers of the mountain
with their tangled horns
and spot-red fleece cross eyed us
they scattered and spilled
with syrupy sure-footedness
across their rock carpet domain

Cruel crows caught by their beaked curiosity
Hung lazily from posts
Their dried feathers flapping
Their spirits flown
Where sky and moor and harshness closed in

What gold we found beneath the earth
Was cut and chopped and carved for warm dreams
Of Sunday afternoons sleeping uncles

Guarded by the soldierly tick-tock, tick-tock
Of the grandfather clock
as time itself stood still
in that sun spilled living room

The tidy death of flies lay on the sill
the dying buzz-buzz of a bluebottle
strained to escape
its laced-curtain prison
back to the mountain.

© 2009 Mervyn Cooke

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