A tuft of hair poking from beneath the bed. Brown like a pony dreamed of. Grazing the field, head bent, legs wide in stance. A twig, spindly and worn through play, skims the stone piled wall. She carries the stick, footfalls unnoticed as eyes are fixed on equine magnificence.
Sometimes her dreams can be forgotten. They lay quiet, uninterrupted in a state last remembered. This is where we find it.
Behind the girl trails a boy, not seen but wanting to be. His hands graze upon the same stone wall.
This is my dream, too, he calls.
So whilst the girl quietly slumbers, the boy plays with toys by the light of torch dimmed by time, only his head, a tuft of hair, seen from beneath her bed,. where he imagines the grass and brown ponies, the wall and openness beyond.
Take me there.