Done with Counting Sheep

Tonight – the silence, almost
tangible. Downstairs, in the hall,
the clock, ratchets on, marking
time to time passing. Lorries make
sweet susurrus on rain drenched roads
and the moon – made lovely only
by prayers etched upon her face.

Winter drags on – solitary hours
stacked one upon the other
like limp and lonely windbreaks
from last summer’s beach. How
I long for reverie – my eyes to close,
as, on a nearby tree, a barn owl’s
screech pierces the darkness;
a hymn, to its insouciance.

In a moment, or two, it is lost
to the shuddering pines, and,
I am left still chasing the sleep
that pervades me, beneath these
creased and crumpled sheets...
bleached by the sun, hung
like white flags of surrender
from apple tree to apple tree...
Even now – their greenness
consuming me.