Lucy reflects on last night's sleep
Paul Belbusti

I dreamt about the word ploughboy until I was eventually dreaming about the ploughboy. And his father. They stood along the road that runs through their field which was so pale and dry. They were silent until the ploughboy looked up at his father, opened his mouth and sang his sweetest little song. His father's cracked hands clutched the wooden handle as he stared down.

Then I dreamt about sitting down at my table, picking up my blue pen and writing a poem about the word ploughboy. And the ploughboy and his father. When I woke up it was March and it was snowing.

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