The Last Dream Of The Night Before You Wake

There is a child running, not so far away, across the lawn and towards the stream at the end of the garden, just beneath the stone wall. The child is wearing a yellow pair of dungarees. They – at this distance you cannot tell if it is a girl or a boy – turn their head as they run, to look back cheekily, complacent with the summer sun on their shoulders and cheeks. And then their foot catches and they fall. Slam on the grass, flat on their nose, that little arrow of speed suddenly still. And there is that three seconds of calm with a bird singing and the cars murmuring far off, and then you are pierced by the cries, the screams of shock and injustice and pain, so disproportionate in volume and intonation, to the actual damage caused and you turn to walk away.