A dream remembered at Primosten ...

I can remember, still vividly, a dream I had when I was a shy, nervy, boy - I was walking in a graveyard, through a procession of marble tombs - everything I saw, the crowns of brambles, the polished marble, the moon in the sky, glowed with light - I was not afraid in the dream, but I wondered who I might see -

I woke up, to my bedroom in Palmyra Road - there, on the shelf, were my Science Fiction books and my Airfix models - outside, in the garden, was a cherry tree - I was just thirteen or so, returned from Malta - I was in my narrow bed - I stared up at the ceiling - I could hear my mum and dad moving about downstairs -

The memory of my dream came back to me in Primosten - we'd gone there, at Nathan and Donna's suggestion, on our first evening at the Marina - they'd walked there, along the rocky shore, with John, past a beach peopled with nude Germans -

We went there by taxi - a thin young man charged us 80 kuna for the drive - the small town was built upon an islet, joined to the mainland by a causeway - it had once defied the Turks, safe behind its walls and drawbridge -

Narrow lanes led upwards to the church of St George - we walked past gorgeous boutiques - young wives examined dainty bikinis - children licked huge ice creams - eateries were full of smiling, sun burnt, diners -

But at the church, all was silent - you could look out over the still sea - the church tower, with its white spire, was outlined against the blue sky -

There were terraces of marble vaults just below the church, overlooking the sea - I looked at the small photographs of the dead people - their faces were like strange ciphers -

Suddenly, I thought of my boyhood dream - the tombs were gleaming with that same unsettling light - the cypress trees were dark torches - the sea became a mirror, full of silvery shadows - swallows fell from the darkening air - I knew, this time, I wasn't dreaming -

I looked out at the distant islands, some covered with pines, others bare and grey - I imagined  the souls of the dead, sailing out to them, in their fragile shining boats -