Wednesday, 12 April 2017


It's a wonderful night. Owls hoot to a waxing moon,
the cat's flaked out on the sofa recovering. 
I trod on him earlier.
Ten minutes down through the wood there's a shore 
and a sea that knows me and a wind that travels its own road 
to my garden.
Maybe in my sleep I'll slip into something kinder, like a pair of wings, 
and meet you in the dark where the foxes gather. 
No one will know.

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