Still clinging to sleep I watched myself walk through my childhood village completely covered with still growing plants. I called up to a window box (although I knew our relationship was already doomed). After dressing in fresh soil June and I treaded the old market path to town, stopping to eat in a tartan skirt and drink in a woolly top and we then came home via stepping stones made from smiling faces. As June linked arms with an easy chair I had to go to London to hear sounds emanate from a hole in the four dimensional ground and watch pictures circle like old school friends. I came home in a darkness pricked by far away lights, my head slowly merging with the railway carriage glass. The stepping stone faces were by then looking tired.