Peacock Dreams

 

“Cashier to checkout seven please.”

She barely hears; behind her mask of Monday smile.

She steers each item past the barcode beep, and sleepworks

- finds that it’s the only way to make it through the disappointment, rude necessity

and shame of this small life, of “every day is like the last”

and tomorrow will be, predictably,

just the same.

Trapped on the conveyor belt, a one way trip, an endless queue,

an automatic “Would you like some help with packing?”

No thanks, no tip.

A cyclops eye to watch the ever-greedy till,

no time, no talk, “Next please.”

Count the cash, no moment to be still ��" no slacking.

She lets them think that they have bought and sold her,

that debts and checkout chain can hold her,

mould her to the corporate scheme,

stamp her life onto a company ID, and guard the exit night and day,

the lights, the walls, the clock-card handcuffs

- they watch her close, it seems,

but never see her digging tunnels, inch by inch

with bleeding fingers, through the darkness,

through the day’s unyielding rock,

into daylight

- into dreams.

 

 

Somewhere, in an English summer’s afternoon.

A whitewashed, lightwashed house.

Wisteria blooms - the colour of an endless sky, tremble in the gentlest breeze,

along the shaded portico.

A swing-seat, slung below the ancient cedar tree.

Friends, talk, laughter, lemonade and cake - and tea in china cups.

Beeches wilting in the heat where cherub children gurgle, giggle, grassy-kneed

and cool their chubby feet, beside a shallow stream.

In these golden rose-washed hours she wanders, lost in bliss,

kissed by sunlight, bathed in flower scent,

content to watch the peacocks strut and preen,

beside the fountain,

across the flawless velvet green of lawn.  

  

The stables clocktower chimes for five, a car arrives, a hiss of gravel

- she knows the moment well.

Dark eyes that smile beneath a Panama,

strong hands, the brush of stubble on her face, the clean smell of cologne,

and children calling, falling up the hill.

These hours, these happy seconds, this distillation of a waking dream,

a wish. A hopeless hope that’s never spoken, a secret spell remains unbroken.

Retreat and refuge, hideaway,

a personal paradise,

to get her through

each weary day.

 

 

“Did you scan that twice?”

The spell is shattered, reality intrudes.

The trolley serpent clatters, beyond the windows where the smokers stand

and joke about fresh air and the rain.

A small bored boy throws fists and tantrums over sucrose deprivation;

a mother’s worn out resignation; she shrinks in pain

and suffers in the queue. Stacked with Christmas in September;

every season in advance

- more time to spend, no chance they won’t remember,

two for one, buy one life, get one free.

Shoes, booze, shampoos, toothpaste, tinsel, toilet cleaner,

magazines, margarine, jeans, jaffas, jelly babies,

televisions, toys, tortillas, stocking fillers

and wallet emptiers.

The avalanche almost buries her.

Time as slow as spilled honey,

electric money flows in waterfalls down every aisle.

“Thank you! Goodbye.” - and don’t forget to smile.

The chasm of the future yawning, bored and broke

and Monday morning. It doesn’t show,

and no one knows

that she was born to own,

the whitewashed house

with peacocks on the lawn.