I dreamed the Universe clung to me. A growing cloud of smoke billowed through an airport full of escalators. Escalators that took us up just to bring us down again. As well as escalators, this was the airport of unreachable terminals. And the smoke darkened. It poured into nooks and crannies. All clean air was blasted with acrid black, and in our acute panic, the Universe and I held each other. We coughed on the not knowing what would happen next.

Later, the smoke had cleared. I was not dead, the Universe was still alive, and I ran freely around a wooden rooftop terrace. A terrace to a property I now owned. Climbing up the steps came a shaded figure with no face. The way it stepped up towards the terrace was automatic and soulless. This, I gathered, was the smoke of the airport in a new form.

The smoke should not have come for me, nor the Universe. I rummaged through a pile of documents until I found the sheet of paper that proved it should not have come for us. In cold silence, it pulled the proof from my hands, turned, and marched away.

Having only arrived onto the property moments ago, I’d not seen the garden before. I looked down over the patio from the terrace. ‘A little weeding is needed between the slabs,’ I thought, but whilst it’s nice out, I’ll invite the Universe over for a picnic.

jigsaw pieces our cracks brought together

R.C. Thomas