To me, one of the wonderments of memory is the sometimes quite random triggering, by seemingly unconnected phenomena, of a particular train of recall dredged up from the long flooded depths of the subconscious.

A picture here, a poem or a song there, a word, a book, possibly a perfume or maybe a remark, and away we go racing through the chasms of memories on our own personal time machine, stopping where we will and, mostly, at any rate in my case, recalling with great warmth and affection the happier side of the past. And I think this is how it should be – the unpleasant times should be more difficult to bring to mind. It was certainly a picture and a poem which prompted me to embark on this little journey of recollections.

I had gone to London on one of my periodic visits to see my sister Maggie and her family, and while sitting in her dining-room, gabbing away about nothing of particular importance, as she and I always did, noticed a picture hanging above the mantelpiece. It was a rather nice little work painted by my father, but I had seen that picture many times before so just why it should choose that particular moment to intrude upon my mind and extract from me more than my usual cursory glance, I cannot tell. Anyhow, intrude it did and whatever Mag and I were talking about took a back seat as we discussed the picture and the poem that, in part, it illustrates. With a little prompting between Mag and myself, we managed to correctly remember all of it. I think that “Wind of Dreams” by Rosamund Watson was one of the loveliest poems read to me when I was a wee boy. I could not have been more than seven or eight years old when I first heard it but the words, substantially, have remained with me ever since.

Considering the epic poetry and ballads that formed part of my tender years of literary exposure, “Wind of Dreams” would probably not have been thought of as required reading — indeed, I don’t know of anyone outside of my family who has even heard of it — and still, when I read or think of it now, it never fails to take me back with the fondest of memories to an extremely happy childhood in the company of my parents and brothers and sisters. Yet it has a certain wistful quality that somehow stirs the recalling of pleasant times almost to the point of sadness. The more I thought of the poem, the more of my childhood came flooding back until I was convinced that my own children would perhaps enjoy reading a few chapters of a slightly different infancy from their own. After all they had always seemingly listened happily enough to the little snippets which I had told them on various occasions, so why not bore the pants off ’em with a wee volume!

I do not know of any other poems written by Rosamund Watson but I will never forget this one. I believe my father must have been similarly affected because, quite unbeknown to the family at the time, he illustrated the second verse “Wraiths which the scented … etc.” with the painting reproduced as a frontispiece. I can think of no nicer title for this little book of reminiscences than “Wind of Dreams”.

Forgive me, Miss Watson!

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