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.