what would the dream be

The dream then would be

picnicking on a mossy riverbank

thick with blooming thistle

in the seep of the infant Swale

before our first daughter could walk

 

The dream then would be

us younger and freer and drunk on O’Hara’s

fucking in the wind and the rain

in the long grass that

decked the shale of the Cliffs of Moher

 

The dream then would be

of the Trinity Hall grounds in darkness

when overcome I’d go sheathless in

from behind

and cease before summit

 

The dream then would be

of cunnilingus on the futon mattress

in your then boyfriend’s spare room

a whole life mapped for an instant

in your white skin and your wet snatch

 

The dream then would be

the post-industrial landscape in the moors

above the ghyll

almost lunar

the scarred earth and hushes, the seams, the spoils

 

The dream then would be

a trio of wine bottles on the boardwalk at sunset

the clamour of the city peaked in silence

then in twilight making love

beneath the canopy of a weeping willow

 

The dream then would be

the beach at Cromer where as new lovers

we twisted ankles on rocks and sinuous gullies

from pints at the promenade pub – a home now –

exhausted from kissing up irregular wooden steps

 

The dream then would be

rear entry catalysed by the lust instilled by family visits

while feet away beyond your bedroom door

your now deceased grandmother

limped from the car and loudly, tearfully shat the bathroom

 

The dream then would be

a daughter born in qualmish pallor, some sleeping doll

another too, years on

soused in foul fluid, these our gifts both

scant magic your cunt can’t muster

 

The dream then would be

fleeting moments of the children both playing

in the breeze of the bedroom some Saturday

the precious light and the company

how lucky I am for such dreams as you’ve made.