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You dream of bigger stables. Behind the rotting wood
You watch, as white-washed walls glint,
The great heads plunge to food.

She dreams her flat is wider. Through her narrow door
A massive stove stands steaming.
She skids on miles of floor.

I dream another garden. A gap leads through the wall
Where neighbours fade to echo,
Rivers of pearflower fall.

What do the others dream of, whose faces nod and reach
To us, each evening, as light dies?
Silk skirts? A beach? Great rivers run
Out of our dreams; not to our lives.

Alison Brackenbury

If you've any comments on this poem, Alison Brackenbury would be pleased to hear from you.