I lie in bed, the curtains slightly drawn,
And spy the stars, the moon, the velvet blue.
The painting hangs, so calm and cool,
Beside the window. ‘Hay Wain’ is its name.
It’s just a copy, not the real thing. Shame,
But just about the same. The lazy scene
Of home and trees and dozy river make
Me fall asleep. The scene still lingers on.
A smash alerts me upright in my bed,
The painting’s frames have fallen to the floor.
The river’s gushing out into my room
And circling everywhere, around my bed.
I feel my bed begin to move, and soon
I’m off! The branches grow out from the right,
I think the forest’s coming after me.
I feel the leafs go up my nose, and sneeze.
And just before the branches scratch my back
I scream, I want this nightmare done with, now!
And just like that, the paintings back the way
It was, its frames restored. Was all that real?
Did I just have a bloody awful dream?
I guess I might as well go back to sleep.