Bottle of Dreams

A little clear-glass bottle lies
Down on my shelf, as if capsized,
And it’s my very favourite thing,
Although it’s only small.
For this old-fashioned bottle hides
A perfect treasure there inside,
A stately wooden galleon
Which holds me in its thrall.

It’s never even moved a whit,
But when I sit and stare at it
I feel I’m in another world,
A-sailing over seas.
I smell the salt and feel the spray,
The ground beneath me gently sways.
I hear the creaking rope and wood
And feel the bitter breeze.

Broad sails snap high overhead,
While over white-capped waves we sped,
And gulls scream out their raucous cry,
So strong and wild and free.
But through the whipping wind and spray
I hear a voice from far away.
My secret world evaporates –
Mum’s calling me for tea.