Monday 17 November 2014


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




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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