It was a clear day…too clear I thought. Mother sat in the kitchen
and sunlight made her white hair into a halo. I asked her who
old she was. Ninety two, she said, knew I was trapped in a dream
as she didn’t live that long. By the slow river I saw furniture drift
along. Brother said that people who lived downstream went
upstream to buy furniture, to save on transport cost they dumped
the stuff into the river where relatives, downstream, picked it up.
Sometimes they lost a table or a commode but that’s a risk one
has to take. I knew this too was a dream, Walked along a soft road,
in a forest, but something was wrong there was a strange red light
emitting from the trees, now I was trapped inside a painting by
a mad Russian artist; luckily I had a flick knife. It is morning, that is
I think it is, sometimes the line between reality and the subconscious
merges, perhaps yesterday is today.