I don’t count sheep, instead
I synchronise my breathing
with the breaking of imagined waves
on sandy beaches dressed with shell and shingle.
Tonight I have the real thing:
an out-of-season seaside town,
this room, high on the esplanade,
the soft breeze reaching in through lifted sashes.
The usual half bottle
a chapter of a book and then
the days, the years come back
in sudden flashes and slow motion scenes
Darkness drains away to show
an open suitcase on a chair,
a man left stranded, sleepless,
listening to these long sighs and whispered wishes.
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