Twisting, tossing, turning,
Side to side, over and over,
Chasing round the bed,
Fighting to find perfect position,
Moving, itching, fidgeting,
Exhausted and desperate to fall
Into the deep abyss,
Where deep nothingness starts,
And the conscious goes amiss.
Too hot, too cold, never quite right,
No tick-tock of the clock,
Minutes and hours crawl along,
Moments passing by at a creep
As if Time is standing still.
Sharp, red digits mocking:
How slowly they change, from one to
another,
Whatever I will.
Mind off chasing down rabbit-holes,
Following tunnels and corridors,
Leading nowhere,
Floating, wandering,
Falling, never hitting the bottom,
Past cliff-faces rocky and steep,
Never reaching, never getting there,
Too active to count many sheep.
Night-time is dense, unchanging,
unyielding,
Never ending, giving nothing away,
Silent, dark, impenetrably deep.
Eyes and body yearning,
Pursuing short-lived snatches of sleep.
The brain keeps rattling on,
Chuntering, chattering,
An ever-running engine,
Ticking over, never stalling.
Too busy, too many things to do,
Names to remember, tasks that are
calling
Slowing down finally, it seems,
A new steady rhythm, a gentle quiet,
Heartbeat regular, breathing softer,
Heading at last toward dreams,
Then suddenly racing and speeding again,
Around the next corner, solving another
puzzle,
Remembering names, thinking about
tomorrow.
Tired, so desperately tired,
Another tangle of blankets and sheets,
Fighting the covers, thrashing around,
Starting to grope, gasping, grasping for
rest,
Snatching at hope after hope,
That somehow this torment will end.
Then, quite suddenly, an alarm ringing,
New light coming in, early birds singing.
Night, it seems, has stolen away,
And bedraggled, be-drowsled,
Not calm, not rested,
Head aching and throbbing,
It’s time to start another new day.
Copyright Andy Fawthrop 2012
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