I twist and turn, trying not to wake.
It’s Saturday, 7am, the weekend looms.
I lie there, count the polystyrene tiles on my ceiling.
The one tile with the corner missing.
Reminds me that I have been meaning to remove it.
A job that has been on the top of my list for months
I pull the covers over my head, trying to grab more sleep.
I imagine I am lying in silk sheets, a four-poster bed.
I live in splendour. No cracked tiles
The maid will bring breakfast at precisely 9 am
Who am I kidding?
That kind of magic is for fairy tales.
I remove myself from the trap known as my bed.
Open the window, clear the air.
Let the stale thoughts from the night out.
I stand in front of the window.
The air cool, the sun not warm yet
I give myself a proposition.
A cause celebre, run down the street naked
Shake things up, get myself arrested.
I decided best not to do that.
Take a walk through the woods
at the bottom of my garden
Find my own kind of magic…
© Anita Dawes 2021
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