Confessional.

Covers of flannelette cotton. Eider down.
Feathers that stuck out like tiny needles to prick the skin.
Thin, frail thows, see-through and threadbare,
tossed on top to keep the heat in.

Then the duvet came, like a labour saving device,
that weighed next to nothing. I was warm,
and it was easy to make the bed.
You could do it with one arm.

But how I missed the weight of those sheets,
the blankets, those riddled layers,
the coldness of my face, my body heat,
the darkness, my mumbled prayers.

Tony Mckeown


If you have any thoughts about this poem, Tony Mckeown would be pleased to hear them