Awaiting the arrival of sleep
the toys are boxed away.
Eyelids heavy in their droop and fall
caressing the pillow
lulling the duvet soft cocoon to peace.
Breathing in
Breathing out
Deeply
Regularly
Rhythmically
The patter of rain pits the glass
The gust of wind the curtain flaps
An owl hoots, heralding
the grey tentacles of night
that stretch out like an old man’s fingers
wizened and wrinkled
spindly and spotted
they crawl along the wall
across the floor
to reach
to linger
on the bed
just long enough
to make him stir
and scream.
© Sheila Ash, 2014
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