Her dreams dissolve the walls. Half-clad
she ventures from her narrow bed
to rooms she never knew she had.
My own dream throbs and widens too.
The cramped town gravel melts into
another garden. Yet I knew
the jostling ivy on the orchard wall.
Blackbirds, my dead, complain that I
have never come; let thick fruit fall.
I nod, agree. But then I make
my own track through the rough wet grass.
The blackbirds call still as I wake.
If you have any comments on this poem, Alison
Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.