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.