Purbeck dreamscape

Recently, I drove to Corfe Castle with Anne in the red Peugeot - we wanted to climb East Hill, and to walk upon its summit - before we scaled the steep hillside, we looked in at the Boilerhouse Gallery - I'd often seen the pale green sign advertising the gallery - I had never gone there - I am not sure why -  

The gallery was, in fact, a collection of small studios, housed in an eccentric single storied building, hung with orange and red fishing floats - a bench made out of sea scorched driftwood was placed next to a blue door - a narrow strip of vegetable garden, decorated with faded bunting, adjoined the railway - a glistening tongue of seaweed dangled from a thorn bush - 

The sculpture, possibly in fibre glass, of a naked striding man, stood upon some bright grass - dried ivy stems twisted up his legs - there were some dark leaves covering his thighs - he shielded his face with his arm, and appeared anguished - 

A young man,with a purposeful set to his head, stalked past us, entering his studio - "he shut his door very firmly upon us", said Anne - I said - "he knows time wasters when he sees them" - if Sophie had been there, with her air of being the recipient of a generous trust fund, then I suppose we would have got a good look inside - 

We walked on - we moved away from the lairs of the potters, the furniture makers, the sculptors - along a muddy track, between bare grey trees - we went past a small patch of finely tilled soil, bordered by a thicket of bamboo - a small shed had been almost engulfed by the exotic greenery - 

Then we came across an abandoned blue lorry - smashed up, given to the waiting brambles - we stared at it for a long time - I imagined the inside of the cab, in the summer, full of twisting, moving, stems - white butterflies might settle, for a moment, upon the displaced innards of the engine - yellow pollen would cover the dashboard - 

I half wanted this to be the start of a dream - when we returned to the gallery, the naked man would be running towards us, covered now in rippling ivy, his mouth wide open, singing - the roads would be waist high with meadows - there would be fauns dancing in the church - an archaic sun would hang blazing in the sky -