by Hattie Scott
Last night I dreamt I went to Eden again,
I found it in my kitchen sink while looking for my keys,
the gateway glimmered through the drain, so that when I peeped through the winding pipes they unravelled into light
melting pots of deep greens and blues, they don’t make evenings like they used to,
a kaleidoscope of gold rolls over the city below and tints our skin.
I can almost see you on the rocks next to me but I am so blinded
that the gold washed boulders behind you gift you wings,
a picture of grace except from that glint of a god complex in your eyes,
that grant you a monstrous height over the palpitating hills,
that wander over my body and then that of the city below.
A geode buried in the hum of a gold mine.
You want to call me mine. You reach over and mine until you can cradle it in your grasp,
The Leadmill crumbles red apatite through your fingers, the Lady Bower evaporates, without asking, you spill the bubbling liquid into mine and it burns molten steel. Still, West street buzzes in my palms and the forbidden splashing of Crookes Valley Park soaks me through. Despite my attempts at welding, Division Street splits in two
I look to you to tell me what to do
beg you, the dreamsmith to lead me home,
you tell me to do what I do best. Eden is ripe this time of dream
but the sugary ores fork my gums.
