A Swinsty Dream

Last night I was at home once more,
bursting in at the back door,
letting in the cold air,
rushing to the kitchen sink,
to stand and gasp and quickly drink,
water which tasted like the stream,
of soil, sphagnum, peat,
a much recurring dream,
an umpteenth time repeat,
ducking beneath the clothes,
slung to dry between the beams,
in winter light at 5 O' clock,
before the Tilly lamp is lit,
and we are sent on despatches,
to bring down the upstairs matches,
and candles for the night,
and purple meths, whose scent
should be evanescent,
being highly volatile,
but which (to me) will always be,
both symbolic and redolent
of adolescent energy,
teenage irritability,
and frustrations,
(with hindsight infantile)
which suddenly flare.
I don't know why this dream ends there,
except that its theme,
not at all mysterious,
is the need to shed light.