So… I’m talking to my daughter:
“No, I don’t mind going to the shops,” I say,
shaking (her) sand from my shoes.
The man walks by, suspicious.
“Why are you still here?”
“I’m talking to my daughter, damn it!”
The park is sweet and wet with rain.
I stand and start to join her.
I’m rushing up!
To light… to noise!
Oh… I’m waking up again!
7,000 miles away, sand-less, in my room.
The man is satisfied.
I wrote this Sunday morning after waking from a lovely dream in which I was casually hanging out with my youngest daughter, who currently lives on the other side of the world. Later that day, I coincidentally found this poem excerpt. It made me laugh. I thought I’d include it here to show you how a professional does it. 🙂
And down in lovely muck I’ve lain,
Happy till I woke again.
Then I saw the morning sky:
Heigho, the tale was all a lie;
The world, it was the old world yet,
I was I, my things were wet,
And nothing now remained to do
But begin the game anew.
–A.E. Housman, excerpt from “Terence, This Is Stupid Stuff”
A.E. Housman said: “I could no more define poetry than a terrier can define a rat.”