SHIP OF DREAMS:

 

Summer 1963, a grey Ford Consul, returning from a North Wales 

picnic, two families inside content, the sweet smell of 

mountain grass, clean air perfume permeating their reveries, 

flips on it’s roof, back onto it’s wheels & hits a finger post 

square on before coming to a standstill in the middle of the road. 

I woke out of a dream, looking up at the austere cloth of the roof 

interior in time for the impact, waking up again on the back seat 

in Mom’s arms, warm sunlight on my legs, the debris of our happiness 

strewn all over the road. Broken glass, rough diamonds cast amongst 

the contents of our joy, glistened on the black top in the cheery light 

of an afternoon sun. 

 

Everything stopped, the road, blocked by our broken stuff, 

scattered in a space cleared for ‘stillness’, an unnatural calm, so quiet 

it was violent. 

 

“It’s ok” I heard Mom say as I regained consciousness

 

 

Catching sight of my favourite toy, a small plastic boat in bold primary 

plastic colours run aground on the white line, one of it’s precious fishing 

rods missing forever, maimed, violated, all I could think was, 

 

‘No – it’s not’ – innocence gone. “You don’t understand”

 

“My boat!”

 

“Don’t worry about your boat, are you OK?!”

 

“My boat! My boat!”

 

A child’s toy, emptied of dreams & mountain stream memories was 

consigned to the back of the cupboard & never played with again. 

 

(K)