We’re all queasy and wretched longing
for snow. The youngest stomps around
the house. ‘You’re so mean’, she says,
‘I want to go to Iceland, now’, and
snuggles into us and kicks until we yell
and she weeps. ‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair.’
The next paints the same picture over
and over, a dragon on a mountain, the
snowline is wavy, the dragon’s tail is thick
and lies beside the dragon like a comrade.
The dragon is at least as likely as our cat.
‘No, fine’, I say. The days so long I can’t
remember how they began. You rub dubbin
into your boots and look North. The heat
falls in incessant waves like rain. The grass
is hay. Every night I dream of mountains.
The Dream of the Swiss Village
dizzying at the base of an impossible mountain;
The Dream of the Snowy Beech Forest,
I enter alone and understand about the moths;
The Dream of Endless Delays in which
I am looking at the slopes, excited,
preparing once more to ski but never skiing.
I wake each morning as one buried.
The Dream of Endless Delays
1 August 2015