Where had it come from -

unsonared, unperiscoped -

the yellow submarine

emerging in her dream?


Not of the Sixties, this vessel -

she was too old in the Sixties,

living at knots not of the Beatles,

nipping at the tingly edge of bare feet

and long dresses, telling herself

to hang loose on refrigerator notes.


Yet there it was, unmonitored,

sneaking up on the shore

of sleep, at the very edge -

silent, hanging loose.


Dream justice? Rain check

cashed for growing up

during war - a sunny toy

for the old girl's second childhood.



Inta Ezergaile


Inta's Poems