Museum of the Forest We drove to the forest. It was in a museum. At the door they handed us a mudspattered map already separated     by too much folding into its nine panels. Chanterelles grew in the carpet. We weren’t sure if they were exhibits. We were asked to wear wellington boots to protect the mud. We put our noses to a little hole. There was an autumn day in it, dry     and mushroomy. The next room was perfumed with resin, warmed by the greenblueyellow     of an infrapine lamp. We rolled up the sleeves of our anoraks and the prickle of rain was      applied by tiny hypodermic syringes. In the next room we had to leave all our sounds at the door. It      contained the noise deer don’t really make at all when they run off. Then we were in a disorientation room with multiple paintings of the      same tree and the sun always in the wrong position. They locked the turnstiles half an hour ago. The cry of the last      child has faded and the sun is setting in the north. No one has told us if the carpet is for sleeping on. from Dragons by Matthew Francis Faber and Faber, 2001. Copyright © Matthew Francis, 2000. Back to Home Page Back to Dragons