As I lie awake I leave the light switched on – the all-seeing eye.
Frightened by the devil or something stupid.
And there’s always a bump or a thud to back it up…
I’m warm as toast though it’s cold outside.
Body heat, sweat-beads like tears from my skin
tickle me under my blankets.
The time passes slowly; nights are long
but not long enough to sleep in
and dawn will come like an anti-climax changing everything.
When my brain crashes I snooze
till the light – the all-seeing golden eye
calls me back.
I’ve tried darkness to tranquilise, to mollify
but then I’m back – back where it begins
a kid again…
listening to his drunken feet on the stairs
cursing and pounding the summit…
…to my room.
For some reason, it’s thought of as breakfast –
in among the sausages and rashers,
though we ate it for our tea in the days before dinner
got moved to evening time.
Black and rich and filling.
The trace of violence in it – like blood rare steak
satisfying some primordial instinct still with us.
‘From pig’s blood,’ I once explained to a visitor
who seemed unshaken. American of course,
not squeamish to hunting or to ‘manning up’ for the kill.
Although reviled by some people sensitive to cruelty,
in some places a delicacy – special guilds dedicated to making it.
Nice eaten washed down with something – strong tea or perhaps
a wheaty beer like how the Germans enjoy their würst.
Better, even, after a hungry ramble in winter sunlight for a couple of hours
when hunger is earned and –
like tae drunk on the bog – ‘good sauce’.