Tag Archives: Dreams

Notes from the field (8)- Travel at night

When I was young, sometimes

we rode the trains overnight

to new houses,

loud dreams

riding a rough disjointed shaft,

rumbling deep into the night.

 

And in the spaces:

towns lit

like strange vessels seen from a distance

sailing some dark and blackened ocean.

 

Dirty yellow stations,

words behind the shuttered windows

and I

asleep in rough blankets

am carried across the shores of memory

toward the vast and orange expanse

of dawn.

Extract from a diary found South of here (12) – Last Words

These are the last words that I will say to you.

Moving from room to room in the half-light of the house, dust motes caught in the slim shafts of sun slipping through the half closed curtains. I trace the tips of my fingers across old wooden shelves and glance at the photos placed before the books.

Listener’s Library beside the paisley covered high wing back rocker. Reading glasses on the dining room table, half hidden under post and papers. Dirty work shoes at the kitchen door.

Mom is crying softly in the bedroom and Dad is pacing the hall.

These are the last words that I will say to you.

The afternoon shifts westward as hands fold upon themselves, over and over and over. We close our eyes and wait for the ceiling to dissolve away, to reveal the glory of the bright white clouds above, the towering clouds we always knew were there.

In the bathroom, the tooth-brush still rests in the glass beside the toothpaste. Tubes of paste and bottles of pills in the cabinet. Silent in the gloom. I look at myself in the mirror and trace the line back into the past, beyond the foyer and front door, the oak tree and garden gate.

Sky.

I hear the sound of a window being opened and in the silence, I hear the release, the breath and know the last words have been whispered.

Through the open kitchen door, I hear children playing tennis in the street.

Extract from diary found South of here (4)

27 June

It is cold.

This cold has crept upon us suddenly. For a while it seemed that winter had forgotten to come, but then, as we all were happy for the relative warm days, winter came as a thief in the night.

Through the open back door. And suddenly, we find that we are cold and have been for some time now, lulled into some false sense of hope by the mild temperatures. Now it is too late to do anything.

We have a carpet of yellow leaves that the wind collects and swirls across the garden, down the drive way and to our front door. It is as if they too want to come inside for heat.

A cold front came in yesterday, without you. You are warm where you are. I think of you. Not as often as I used too, but I still think of you. There is a hole now, that place where you were. I see people who remind me of you, of your space and habits.

I have them still, these memories. In that, I am fortunate, I am fortunate for having known you, for having experienced you.

The hose pipe hangs from the tree, so that it does not freeze on the frosted ground.