Frosting

The number six turns into a frying pan. The number eight splits into two circles. Number six becomes a spoon, it dollops icing on both circles of eight, which are now cakes.
At this point, dreaming is suspected.
Awake, the interpretation takes no effort.
Yesterday marked the 68th year since my father was born into this world, and since he isn’t here any more a dream-cake is offered.

Outside, the world is enriched. Pale gold, the winter sun. From the car, from blades of grass, in swathes across the fields, verglas glints. Starlings, jet dark, bloom up with a noise like sails catching a headwind. One memento mori crow watches from the ash tree.

On the way to her nursery Little Granddaughter sits in the car, kicking up her welly boots and lying about breakfast.
‘I had chocolate,’ she says, ‘and butter and frogs and a sheep.’
‘No toast?’
‘Yes and a tree and marmite and sprinkles. Sprinkles are pretty.’
She looks out of the window. In the town, the ice has melted.

There is something about the cake dream, something more than was recovered by daytime recollection.
Sprinkles, it could have been that.
Frogs and a sheep?
The candles, the cherry on top.
Points in time that shine.