The age of wakefulness
I go to bed with weary uncertainty.
Will it be an ok night, or a bad one?
A few trips to the loo, or too many?
I wake at six with the usual sense
of achievement. Think of emails
I should write, the walking companion
and prostate survivor I met
yesterday, now installed in a flat
in the centre of town, near Homebase.
His new spark. Horses we once saw
racing each other for the joy of it.
Go downstairs, read a fellow poet
and musician's latest work,
wait for the paper to arrive,
the day to wake up.
Is this what they mean by being
‘woke’? They must mean
something by it. Remember again,
another morning, the hillside at Hay.
The happiness of those horses.