By BernardYoung

Dream On

When we drop off, when we fall
asleep, when we collapse
into slumber, it’s a deep well
we plummet into. I hope
you sleep well.

I’ve fallen into a world
where my Dad sinks beneath sand
as an angry tide approaches,
wave after wave
getting closer.
Soon he’s covered.

I hear his voice,
‘I can’t see’ he says,
but then he’s silent.
I attempt, vainly,
to scoop up sand
with one hand
while beckoning for help
with the other…

No help arrives. Rain does.
A hard rain. But why
is a brass band playing?
I’m part of an unwilling audience?
And I want my Dad.

Throughout the storm
they play. A torrent,
a torrential pouring down of notes,
drenches us. There is fire
in the air. Thunder
is a bomb going off.
A screaming man dives for cover
into the cavernous mouth of the tuba.
It must be safe in there.
I think of following him
but the tuba blasts out
a heavy unwelcoming note,
rejecting him,
and he comes flying out.
He soars above us
and will still be flying
long after I have woken up…

Oh well

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