Starved Of Sleep
Iím with those asleep
and surrounded by seawater.
I canít see the rain
but hear it falling.
It chings like temple bells
and finger cymbals.
Falling asleep is like waiting
for a suit to be mended.
Itís a forest at night.
A Christmas pony.
Iím nodding at maybe.
Iím shrugging at might
and the lie of probabilities.
So hush-a-bye little windmill,
cease your endless turning.
Nighty-night, old photograph.
I wonít be coming home again.
Some poems arenít meant to be written.

Bruce McRae

If you have any thoughts on this poem, Bruce McRae   would be pleased to hear them.