Friday, 11 June 2010

With a cracked rib,

at midnight I begin to flow
East, around a sticky bed,
like an hour hand on a clock face
- incremental, low.

At 3 a.m. I, snail-slow,
crawl and push my head
towards a warmer Southern space;
quivering for its glow.

At 6 a.m. birds’ melodies
turn me, a mechanical fool,
Westward, now a climber,
and up the bed I creep.

At 9 a.m., colder seas
turn me in my pool;
I’m North now, a returner
confused, awake, asleep.


  1. little or no sleep
    keepin time
    through the night

  2. always painted well -- both a compass and a clock, hmm... here's to home and being centred again