In the dream, the river ran uphill,
carrying houses like driftwood
toward a sky the colour of bruised glass.
I traced its course in ink,
my pen snagging where the current turned.
By morning, the lines had settled into streets I knew –
and the name of the man who drowned there
rose like a landmark I’d forgotten I’d visited.
Each new commission arrived folded like a secret,
ink feathering into shapes I half remembered:
a bridge bent into a question,
a forest where every tree hummed a different note.
I pinned them to the wall
and watched the dream stitch itself together—
until a childhood back lane
opened between two impossible mountains.
The final map arrived at dawn,
its creases like the palm of a hand
I’d once held.
The questioning bridge, the clock without hands,
the river running uphill – all converged
on a vacant lot two streets from my door.
At dusk I stood in air
heavy with rain that hadn’t yet fallen
and saw the outline of a house that no longer stood.
In my mind, the rooms were lit,
and someone I had lost long ago
waited at the window,
as if I’d only stepped out for rain.