A snipe flies into my garden,
brown body, long rapier beak.
A wetland visitor, it finds a puddle,
washes the dust from feathers,
shakes sparkling droplets onto me.
It’s a dream-bird speaking
in verse, that alternates with its cry,
not from the throat, but a winnowing noise
a whoop-whoop warning call
from a flickering buzz of its tail.
This must be someone else’s dream
I’ve stepped into by mistake.
I ask is it me, check my feet
recognise ballet shoes with block toes,
my long hair in a single plait,
I’m wearing my aunt’s cameo brooch.
I pull a tin of pineapple from a cupboard,
a carton of custard from the fridge,
eat without stopping until the spoon
clangs to the floor. Sound creeps in,
the ballon-ballon voice of a Viennese
balloon-seller from my favourite film noir,
and Freddie Mercury, performing in Budapest,
tells me he still loves me.
[Further reading: The very British brutality of Kind Hearts and Coronets]
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This article appears in the 11 Mar 2026 issue of the New Statesman, The Great British Crisis
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