Can't sleep

in a big house,

alone.

 

At dawn the central heating moans

a high whine;

wood and plaster kick, knock

and heat turns up a winter wick.

 

            Is it loneliness?

Not really.

           

            Disconnected head and heart?

Possibly.

           

            Disconnected?

 

At a café in Kendal

where I drink coffee

Andrew chooses another table,

sits down,

smiles at strangers;

waits to see what happens next.

He loves them, you see.

Mostly, people love him back;

particularly old ones, Sages.

He makes them feel special,

and an encounter

warms the place.

 

At night, he sleeps

like an angel.