Can't Sleep For Sheets.

There’s that weird, cold hour when everything’s asleep,

Save a badger rooting around ‘neath the Hazels lining the terrace.

Even the fox’s banshee screams are sounding exhausted now.

She’s tired herself out chasing rats along the line.

 

My cigarette smoke twists and winds through the open window and dances lustfully around car aerials.

 

The clouds parted hours ago, opening up the sky for the stars to wink away and tempt me from my bed, to a rooftop somewhere.

 

There’s scaffolding around the corner, but even the moon’s made his peace and crashed down to earth.

 

No good.

 

A panda car crosses the railway bridge again, eyes down for The Nocturnals, up to no good. But they grew wise and hide in the long grass on the embankment with the other dirty needles.

 

At last, the caw-cackle wail of the gulls fills the night sky.

Their silhouettes cast eerie shadows on the grey tin roof of the football stand.

 

In no time at all, the sky will creep from orange to grey to white, and then it will rain.

The town will become damp underfoot and my shoes have holes in.

 

And I will yawn and roll over in my bed and let the sun warm my back as I dream of a good night’s sleep.

 

30/7/13.

South View Terrace.