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A Dream

 A Dream

 

I’m with King Charles III

& I’m crucified on an ‘Irish cross’

(not a Celtic cross, kind of brambly)

He lets me cut myself down

We’re friends now

I ask if I can keep the ‘commemorative “Finn” (which I think means 'Fenian') cushion which come with the crucifixions

(The strings on the small Irish Harp design on the cushion looked more like prison bars)

He hesitates a moment but assents

“We don’t use these anymore”

& that “Finn” to the English

“Means the little Irish”


I’m somewhat shaken by the whole experience

But he offers me a scotch

A nice one  ̶

An Islay one by the taste of it

He is warm to me like a grandfather

 

After a while

He has to go off with some of his aides

& leaves me there

 

I am called over to the window by the procession of passersby outside

An Eastern European pair of women ask me if I’d like a sip of Advocaat

Which I do

Then they ask if they can have a sip of

My (I guess “The” (as in 'Royal') whiskey

Which I share with mixed feelings

(Drunk codes and propriety clash, you see)

 

I go back to my seat

& resume my audience with King Charles

(He doesn't seem put out, mind you he has a few glasses in front of him)


By now he starts to look tired

I say to him

“You look tired, I’d better go”

I bow & say, racking my brain for the right words,

“My Liege”

(I guess I’d heard it somewhere in Shakespeare)

I felt a little awkward coz the rest of it had all felt natural

& I was worried about Charles’ aides, Charles didn’t mind

I’m sure it wasn’t the right words

How would I know what to say? – I’d just come off a cross

 

Anyway, I left and woke.

 

And the day that followed was like a psychic hurricane.

 

 

Published & Copyright Malachi Doyle 2023.

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