Starved Of Sleep
 
I’m with those asleep
and surrounded by seawater.
I can’t 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.
It’s a forest at night.
A Christmas pony.
I’m nodding at maybe.
I’m shrugging at might
 
and the lie of probabilities.
So hush-a-bye little windmill,
cease your endless turning.
Nighty-night, old photograph.
I won’t be coming home again.
Some poems aren’t meant to be written.

Bruce McRae

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