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WHAT THEY DO WITH THE DREAMS It has white legs and memory like an onion. Layers of laughter peel away between wars. She tucks it into a box and lays a rose on top. His is whispers and has hairs all over; there is also a bell somewhere in it and a housemaster with his flies undone. My mother's dreams were smiling between prayers and hymns and children's stories that she gently made beneath the stars. Grandfather tried to make them into words or at least make them useful but swearing from the builders buggered it up. And poor Uncle Reggie got trapped inside and could never get out of the figure 4. Even after he woke up.

David Grubb
Henley-on-Thames

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