My recurring dreams of water:

trapped on land that’s eaten by sea,

or in a cave at high tide;

looking down at a woman’s body

in clear green water near a pier.

Dreams of water, or dreams of fire,

but not for ages until the other night

when a flame leapt from the top

of the cooker, bounced onto me,

then three or four of my friends,

each of us then, on fire, in it, but

there was no smell of burning,

no smoke and no-one screamed.

This dream fire’s cool, possesses,

in fact, the properties of water.

But now I want a proper water dream;

not the sort where I nearly drown

but one where I’m swimming

in a dark, warm sea, and emerge,

dripping with phosphorescence.

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