DREAMS ARE MADE OF THIS

I was back home where I grew up, The Oak, Snow Hill, Clare, Suffolk. In childhood, there was an overgrown bank opposite the house and through the brambles and elders a badger high track led up the bank and into a rolling field of yellow wheat. I crawled effortlessly up the track until it reached some tree roots. The soil fell away from the roots and I was inside a golden room, the living room of my neighbour's house. No one was surprised at my arrival or the manner of my arrival through earthy tree roots. I smiled at the little old woman and her dog and made my way through the kitchen to their back garden, refusing tea, shaking earth from my clothes as I made my way toward a muddy field caked in wet, low cloud.