I dreamed a dozen dreams
with my knees brought up
propped against the steering wheel,
my bladder taut, same
as the tiny boy bladder
I nursed under  superman pajamas

Little shorts, true blue
and bent at caramel knee,
my rabbit tucked safe
between forearm and chest,
tight to my rib cage
then brittle as a sconce shell,
and eyes screwed tight
against the expedition
from the warm
opened like a sunflower
underneath  my  rosy worried chin

And how strange it is-
a foreign sea my adult dreams
appear to me visions,
images so clear,
familiar and yet unknown,
like language
pock and twanged
‘cross pots
boiling stock off
goats’ bones-

I watch myself:
head bowed, hands bent
tending seriously
to eggs, broke and scrambling
in their wrought iron run
bespeckled with puck holes
and flaking with rust,
a light perspiration to the brow,
a tight-lipped but set slight smile
overseer to my methodic movements

My dreams are fluid,
adaptable, for
one day through my window pane
(steamed a little in the corners)
a rickshaw rides clattering,
the next
une petite fille bustles her bicycle
through the nettles
that line the ally,
careless in the failing day
to the leaves brushing
her skirt,
deep violet
by fallen blackberries.

‘December Dreaming’ was published over at Crack the Spine – if you liked it, drop them a comment