04 February 2012

Bleary Morning

The sleepwalker is plodding, soft, unsteady
A slow dawn-dance along the cold thin shore,
Mumbling a rhythm faintly and already
While we all lay in bed and dream and snore
The first lean light is glowing in the sky.
The sleepwalker has plucked wet plums and drops
A trail of stones across the sand whereby
A way back home is maybe found. The shops
Are beginning to open, owls have fled.
My bedside clock clanks. I awaken with a
slumberous simper and a need to pee,
I smell of beer and I can feel my liver.
As I gaze out the window’s frost I see
The sleepwalker returning home to bed.


1 comment:

  1. Great images here. I hate it when you can feel your liver! Blergh!