3.20 am

There she lay
in the throws of slumber
and me
my futile counting of numbers 
wide awake annoying 
fingertips rake
splitting hair
the problems of a day
and you just there
breathing
bedside 
your sleeping form
I am the motionless man
I Fidget in a most considerate manner
with thoughts the burdens
and words that stammer
for I fear to share
at This cruel hours lair
In bed, tis surely criminal,
To wake and break,
the breathing beauty rhythm, 
sighs of mostly silence.
her hypnotic security
is after all
feeding me, endless
as my inner voice bleats
a restless leg
cotton sheets 
barriers
I thread 
a focus of thoughts 
shifting slowly
but curled, the core, if only
she were awake
a warm mass of more
of her is what I need
so shuffling over, I shape her form
and body warmth 
creeping yawns
at daybreak 
the lush lawns
semi- illuminate 
curtains often open
she is a colour
harmonious
4,13 am
I finally drift
lids sagging shift 
a melotin melt
she the sandman felt 
I should finally
Sleep.



Peter Crompton (C) 2007