I may have been reading too much Norman MacCaig when I wrote this…
The late night radio
Hums a grave slave rave.
The old set cackles,
But will not give up.
And the central heating
Heaves around pipes and boilers.
Each flat chime taunts my ears.
My pillows won’t plump up enough.
Rain falling off the roof
Utters names of far gone places,
Forms new blankets.
And I can’t hear your night sounds,
Still my eyes cannot close tight enough.
(c) Becky Deans 2014