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George Szirtes

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The Dream Hotel

As if the sea were entering through the window,
it was that close. Flecks of burning ice thrown
from the rocks it struck, each single fleck blown
sharp-toothed into the house. Meanwhile, below
there were guests waiting to check in, a clerk
to register them, luggage piling at doors.
This was the form of the dream. Polished floors
were swimming in water, a green-grey dark.
From the top of the cliff you could see rain
gathering on the horizon, not yet ready
to fall but on its way. In one room two lips
were joined together, hands resting on hips,
the pair of them increasingly unsteady
as the flood rolled in like an enormous stain.

You wake to a light on the ceiling. How long
have you been awake? You lie next to him,
the one you always lie with. Some vague, dim
recollection. Years of memory. The song
of the sirens. The glow of the clock-radio
is green and gentle. Classical music, faint,
barely audible, oozes from it. Something quaint
about all this, your life passing on its slow
unforgiving way. The shape in the bed stirs
in its sleep, rolls over. You feel the steady swell
rising in you. You hear the sea again.
It is still far off, a slowly approaching train
down a long tunnel that leads to the hotel
and the two lovers, just as his lips touch hers.

 

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