A Reflection on Memory's Dreams

I’m receiving postcards from the past.

People forgotten for decades

send messages in code,

written in memory,

saved on the

soft machine’s hard drive.

Dreams come jumbled:

Dave who died

before Damien saw daylight

drinks doubles

at the Dog and Duck

with Damien’s daughter.

I hunt low and high

for my airman’s hat

through souks, bazaars and markets,

in stews, bar-rooms and messes,

until I steal another’s

with the wrong badge.

I’m in the team

at last, on merit,

kitbag on shoulder

-running late.

Every changing room

is the wrong one

until it isn’t.

But I’m too late:

the game’s afoot

and I’m wearing one boot.

These communiqués

are unimportant:

in dreams

or waking reverie,

the apologies

not offered

are the only regrets.