This is the first of my 3 poems that were published in the High Tide Anthology.
I dream I am a writer.
A dynamic thinker soon to birth an epic;
A work so richly textured and subtly rendered
It moves the masses, thrills the critics, cleanses the world.
Spoken of in the same breath as Atwood, Shields, Mantel.
A fresh voice. Witty and erudite. Poignant and penetrating.
I wait, pen poised over lined sheet.
My fingers tingle, awaiting revelation.
I envisage invention flooding from the nib,
crowding the page with provocative plots,
scathing satire, astute analogies.
Characters queue to audition for their big break
but are cast aside by stinging judgements.
Lofty themes wade through a mire of doubt
searching for an escape route onto the page.
Plots open, develop and fade,
Swept on a sea of expectation.
It is just a dream, I sigh.
I remain cemented to this reality.
So I reach back
to summer streets bubbling with palpable dreams,
to chalk-marked rainbow playgrounds,
when a trickling burn became a mighty river with one thought,
a pebbledash wall became a cliff to be scaled in a single leap,
when frog spawn was pixie pearls,
a clothes-horse a castle,
a tree a whole kingdom.
When dreams merged with reality
and to journey between them was effortless.
Then, I became lost in writing
so that when Mrs Taylor called 'Time' I was jolted from reverie,
amazed to awaken unscathed from my adventure
in the world of desks, chalk and screeching bells.
When the red pen proclaimed 'Excellent!'
I did not doubt it.
I was peerless.
And as I walked from the classroom,
I slipped seamlessly into my next dream.
Now, as I wait, pen poised fingers tingling,
I close my eyes hoping to capture that child,
and hitch a ride into her dreams.