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.
