The room drinks in draughts of cold air that comes
through the window that stubbornly refuses to close.
I try to marshal my thoughts so that I can fall into sleep.
It seems important that I am to do this thing.
There’s the danger that sleep might steal
along before the thoughts are picked up,
turned over and put safely into place.
At the moment, the images that come
with the thoughts are scattered like sheep,
vulnerable all across the darkening hills.
Another window, through bad design,
lets in light from the kitchen belonging
to the flat next door. The light falling
on the bed, the cold air playing
across my face. I could probably
work with these things but what I can’t deal
with is the woman who keeps screaming
in the house next door while my thoughts
run through the cold fields followed by
the foxy-red baying. I wish someone
would help me gather them safely
in, hose them down and lay them
in some kind of clean, straw smelling
place of calm and order.