I had a heavy dream last night- it was bleached and beautiful- I dragged a railway sleeper along the side of a river and knew I was a poem, and knew I was alive, and knew I was suffering for something important; myself, alone. I had lost someone and would never find them again. The river made marshes that forced me up and into the forest. The light was gold and fell through the thin trees in sharp bursts, as though the start of an autumn sunset had been extended into lasting for hours, and hours... I finally came upon a village, and passing the houses- that were small and made of large pieces of limestone- I was compelled to enter one... An artist from India lived there, his wife an architect, his urge to create softened into a wise and arching kindness with the ageing he had thought he would not meet. He cared for me and gently undid the chain that was fast around my wrist, and I was separated from the railway sleeper... I was a small boy with pale, pale skin made brown and grey from dirt & bruising... after that, some incredibly soft kindnesses were bestowed upon me & I began to grow strong. The walls were hung with perfect works, and the surfaces arranged with perfect objects of colours exactly right. The light did not alter.
