On Stealing the Duvet (for Holly)
In heavy dreams I wrap myself,
rolling like a wrestler.
I tug the blanket out from under you,
asleeping in Colchester.
Books face-down on bedside tables
wax poetic with the wicks
of burnt-out candles, in the cold
I drag the blanket out of Essex.
Like a squeezebox it stretches,
and casts a shadow over London,
eclipsing each of our old haunts
back when our sleeps were drunken.
It flutters over Reading,
where awoken from a nightmare
someone watches from their window,
whilst still I sleep, unaware.
I pull it over Oxford
and Swindon’s swarming skies,
by the time it reaches Cheltenham
you awake and roll your eyes.
“You’ve done it again!” echoes past
patchwork roads and tarmac thread,
in sluggish splendour I murmur moons
and snuggle back to bed.