Sleepless, I walk to the window.
I part the cold, heavy curtains, and look.
The football pitch lights have been left on.
My eyes take to the grass, green in the light.
Well cut. The painted lines straight and white.
Looked after. Fixed. Neat.
And then, something appears in the penalty box,
holds still as if it knows it’s being watched;
lean body, bold orange fur, a clean, white bib,
and if only it would just turn and look at me, just once,
but it doesn’t, and it darts, disappears
into the bordering shadow. Swallowed.
Further, a car inches along the far road, ribboned
across the hills. Headlights bore the black.
A lone porch light dies behind the trees.
The stadium lights burn and burn
and I wait and I wait. Nothing comes back.
I leave the curtains open and accept the night.
Back to bed, and I am restless,
knowing the silent waves of sleep
wash sediment of braver days.