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.