ABSTRACT
Soon after starting to write poetry, I had a dream: I climbed onto my desk in order to reach a door I had never noticed before, high up on the wall. I hauled myself in (a kind of reverse birth process) and found myself in a railway waiting room that looked as though it had been frozen in time. On the seats were a number of mummified old women, who had died waiting for a train that never came, and dried up where they sat. Thick china cups, stuck to tea-stained saucers, stood on a pine table. I passed through this room and into a light, large space beyond it, which was empty apart from a tapestry hanging on one wall.
