A F Harrold

My Neighbour Has Had A Dream.

My neighbour has had a dream.
I overheard him telling Mrs. Jones,
who lives on the other side,
all about it the other afternoon.

In it, it appears, he received instructions
detailing the proportions
and the method of construction
required for a great big boat.

Since we live some distance from the coast
and since it is for the most part a dry land
and not inclined to flooding at this time of year
I paid him and his dream little heed.

But Mrs. Jones (who is a widow) didn’t.
In fact she positively encouraged him.
Working as if possessed by something holy
they laboured and lumbered and they built.

Day by day crossing their two gardens
grew the spine and ribs of a great big boat.
They covered it, tarred it and three weeks later
they broke a bottle of champagne and named it.

Having no families of their own to speak of
they invited the whole neighbourhood
round for some canapés and wine
to share in the glow of their handicraft.

We had a guided tour and it all looked very nice.
Mr. Peterson, from number fourteen,
began to feel seasick and had to be helped off.
My boys walked him home. Very kind, I thought.

The next morning everyone woke up
to the sound of something alien in the garden
and on the roofs. Like scampering feet a hum
drummed across the corrugated iron of the shed.

What had begun as a sprinkling became a downpour.
When young Shem came back from the newsagent
my Daily Telegraph was simply pulp.
It was raining that hard.

Outside the back window a row of shapes was passing.
Giraffe, cobra, gnu, chinchilla, marmoset, puma,
caribou, coypu, apricot, antelope, kangaroo,
panther, wolf, bison, ocelot, bear, sheep, dog, and frog.

I stuck my head out and shouted at my neighbour,
“What’s all this then?” “Animals,” he replied.
“On my flower-beds,” I said, “They’re ruined.”
He clearly couldn’t hear as he carried on counting.

I gathered the boys up to go over there
in order to discuss my flower-beds man to man,
face to face, patriarch to patriarch as it were.
If anything it was now raining harder.

By the time I’d found my water-proof sandals,
fastened my biggest robe around me and set out
he’d counted the last of his menagerie aboard.
I stormed up the gangplank to make my point.

“Hello neighbour,” he said benevolently,
obviously misunderstanding the look on my face.
“There’s not much room left after the animals,
but me and Mrs. Jones don’t mind squeezing up.”

He side-tracked me momentarily with his joviality
but I soon remembered what I’d come for,
“My flower-beds,” I roared above the increasing rain,
“They’re absolutely ruined. Trampled, eaten, crushed.”

“Oh dear,” he said, “I didn’t realise. I’ll see what I can do,”
and so he set off down the gangplank, trowel in hand,
“You just keep an eye on the animals for me,
make sure they don’t get into any more mischief.”

So me and the boys kept an eye on the animals
while the storm-water continued to fall and the thunder to crash.
After a while and a short game of cards I stood up.
And as I stood up I wobbled. The whole room wobbled.

Outside the gangplank was drifting away towards the houses.
And all that remained to be seen of the houses was their roofs.
And very soon all that remained of the roofs was the aerials.
And I turned to the boys and said, “Has anyone seen Mrs. Jones.”