Olivia Dawson
“Museum of Shelved Dreams”
Summer 2020
Grandchildren’s boots, armour against
garden snakes, moulder in the garage,
I catalogue them: Too Small For Next Year.
Rolls of neon beach towels, neat
as swaddled babies, I record as: Pristine.
Pink and blue melamine, on view in the kitchen,
I categorise: Obsolete. A precarious tower
of well-thumbed books, I classify: Outgrown.
My daughter’s pyjamas, threadbare seams
frail as cobwebs, I smooth under her pillow,
labelled: Hope For The Future. There’s a hush
in my house, like the calm of a museum
with roller blinds lowered to ward off the light,
or the quiet of a front room, curtains drawn
against the sun – all brightness eclipsed.