I never dream about poetry or poets. However, following my Selima Hill dream of two nights ago, I had another poetry dream last night, this time featuring Simon Barraclough. Maybe I’ve started having more because I wrote the Selima Hill dream down.
Simon Barraclough is sitting at a café table, outdoors in the sun. He is with MF, who happens to be minister (vicar) of a church near my house in Edinburgh. The conversation goes something like:
MF – Our organist is going to be away on Sunday.
SB – Well, I’ll play for you. Where’s your organist going?
MF – Some village in the east.
SB – He can play there then. And someone from the village can play mine.
MF – Yes, that’s great. Thanks…
That’s all I remember.