Early in the morning, I dreamed of having to stop a dragon sacrifice; it was a white dragon and related to the Matter of Britain, but not in the fashion of Merlin's dream. In the last dream I can remember before I got up, I was in a shell-hole waiting for a direct hit. I can see how this image evolved out of both recent media and current events, but it feels a little unnecessarily on the nose. I am intrigued that my brain cast me as a combat medic when I spent so much of the weekend trying to get hold of doctors; maybe it just thinks it would be more efficient. The substance of the last few days is that I am not in good shape and it is not fun.
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- 1: Did you see the closing window? Did you hear the slamming door?
- 2: Keeping time on the kingfisher's climb
- 3: Because brick-braided alleys make steep, sleeping valleys seem level and clear
- 4: Don't look round, but I think we're taking off
- 5: Sing the praise of Alexander, he's no use to me
- 6: The hedges and fields are clothed all around with several sorts of green
- 7: Chinatown, London Underground, you know it all sounds good to me
- 8: Take us roaming in the gloaming, your Ross rifle by your side
- 9: I'm singing out this poem all the way back home
- 10: Pa vez o pellaat da vag, ha ma c'hoantaez c'hoazh?
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