dreams

Flood

Swimming in my dressing gown

I walk to a place of three hills.  My hill is lower than the other two.  Sun battles cloud.  All the land fills with water.  As the ocean rises I look with envy upon a family standing on the very top of the highest hill in the valley. They are close and safe and dry. The High Hills stand with arms folded. I hear them chunter with ambivalent curiosity, mulling over what the Low Hills will do.  My sisters and I embrace the coming of the seas. ‘Shall we swim?’ says the middle one.  I wade out into water.  I am wearing an old towelling dressing gown and carrying a cup of tea. The gown becomes sodden and heavy.  I panic.  Then I tread water and sip tea.  My sisters distant banter drifts into my ears on a maritime breeze.  The ends of my hair are wet.  Calming waves lap fondly at my shoulders.  Sunlight reaches across the water.  I feel its warmth upon my face. Everything will be fine.

Dream of flying away

I live in the 19th century in Victorian London.  The drawing room is crowded with men in top hats and coat tails.  There is a thick, smoky fug.  I am stifled.  I want to escape.  I sneak out of the back door and walk to the end of a long, thin, untidy garden.  I lift my layers of skirts and scale a metal fence; the like of which I have never seen before.  I jump from a height into a busy road. Every which way I turn there are motorised vehicles so I run.  I run and run down the road till air fills my mourning dress and lifts my feet and I am flying.  My flight is jerky and uncertain.  I’m worried my petticoats will get caught beneath angry wheels.  I try flying with one arm outstretched but two arms thrust forward gives me more power.  Yet I cannot gain enough height to stay above the bustle.

 

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Fleeing the past