We journeyed through villages once in existence;
Marsh-margins for farmlands, and ocean converge;
Dreams don’t delude me, when there is no hand lotion;
Work harder, subconscious, for attention deserved.

Decelerated car, we had not travelled far
Before I thieved moments: self-important photographs.
Coastal cottages firmly fixed, like constellations
Sublimated their cement from stars, and with

Roots of Sandstone and Flint.
Suddenly we walked, hand in hand, using geo-location;
Found your house hidden, a sub-alternate hamlet near.
Yes, cognisant of a dream, translucently you appeared

In front of your red-bricked homestead, plot of land,
Fields of wheat fleece the horizon, where the soil
Caught the sun beneath a hawk’s sebaceous gland.
A birthday party, somewhat random; rooms filled

With friends of your teenage son, there is laughter
And tattle in corners of my electroencephalogram.
Your daughter’s bicycle wanted repairing,
So alongside her I ran, through those fields tanned,

To find an arena all littered with steel,
Pedals and pipework, a pedlar’s crop circle,
I tried to show homage to an older man’s knowledge
By checking the length of the frame and the wheels.

Outside and beyond a storm with no name
Complains with conformity’s zeal.
I heard there were never such storms before
Everyone turned in to their own island.

I woke, wondering where that family lives,
Close and remote, simultaneousness.
One day these words will be as new and obtuse
As hieroglyphs etched in an old tree trunk.