The returner: 1.15am

Poetry

We furred at the edges

have forgotten where we each end

in this cocktail of aching sleep and wakening.

There are times

when you wrench yourself from those

dreamless drifts of pure rest

to footfall your way

to the fretting

and I can lie, wakeful for your return.

 

Often it is my body rising me

the way a wave pulses to the shore

I go to the child, that child who has woken

with no covers, or a dry throat or a terror filled dream.

 

But have I told you how

I swim in our warmth

and it is like that comfort I can give

returned and returned?

 

(Concentric circles, a pulse of falling,

the moon’s shadow across bed.)

 

You are my home and my returner

even when we are pulled awake

here in these small hours.

 

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