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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’, as in Finn McCool) 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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