3.15 am:

ridiculous to contemplate
a bird twi-tweeting outside
or that half-lit hotel ceiling.
I need to sleep, I’m not lying
when I say I should be flat out.
Instead I’m writing a poem, unbidden,
trying to get into heart, any heart, my heart.


The sun rises in spite of everything
and fierce birdsong’s there, twittering bright.
I wait for harder sunlight,
knowing inevitable daybreak, another day flying,
reckoning a day is up and, lucky dip, it’ll be all right.