Never been much of a night owl
until this night.
On this night, tonight, I can’t sleep.
On this night, it’s so warm, I can smell the burning
of the January heat.
On this night, I give up on the sleep and get up to
follow heat to the kitchen.
I smell the burning of crusts, stuck in a non-stop toaster, but there is nothing.
Just the kettle and cold water.
I make tea and still
I can’t sleep.
What is it about this night?
Why am I burning
when the wind howls and the birds song pulls me up through open sky-light,
and out into tomorrow’s summer?
Is this the fast-forwarding?
Am I the core of this globe, middle-age and middle-night, an unbreakable thermos?
What is it about this night?
Is it my night?
Real, toasted and burning, I write and through the open sky-light …
and the rain feeds me.
Copyright owned by Jay Cool, 3.19pm, 2nd January, 2020
Image by Kevsphotos from Pixabay
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 