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.